The Red Tide
by Confused Confusion
Summary: DISCONTINUED. Please read latest chapter for details. Bill is gone. Their escape: destroyed. Splintered, the survivors find themselves alone in a world where everyone wants them dead, and begin to learn that the fight for survival is never truly over.
1. Prologue: Counting the Days

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Left 4 Dead franchise, Valve does.**

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The Red Tide

By: Confused Confusion

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Prologue: Counting the Days

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Inspired Music: "Uprising" – Muse

**And pretty much every piece of background music from ****Zombie Panic! Source**** by KillahMo.**

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Day 1

**First Infected checks into Mercy Hospital's ER after losing a thumb to a band of muggers. He is unknowingly infected with the viral pathogen via his severed appendage. An attending ER nurse is infected through blood borne pathogenesis, patient is kept overnight. The nurse ends her shift and heads home without knowledge of infection.**

David bit back a cry of pain as he held his wounded hand in a death grip. The pair of nurses on either side of the bed struggled to keep the flailing man on his back. A scream erupted from the patient's throat, the resulting movements causing the rag to slip off of his hand. A stream of blood pumped from the severed opening that used to be his thumb. The crimson substance splattered against the green scrubs of the nurse on his left, and unbeknownst to any of the room's occupants, a drop splashed against her upper arm. The severed appendage sat in a sterile container on the counter a few feet away.

"Mr. Johnson, you need to relax so your heart rate will go down! If you keep this up, then you'll die of blood loss!" The blood-covered nurse shouted.

Her words seemed to reach David to some extent, and the man eased his struggling as the doctor briskly entered the room. "How is he?"

The other nurse glanced up, "He's not loosing as much blood as when he first got here, and there's still a chance we can reattach the thumb."

The man in the white coat nodded, "Very well; Linda, go notify surgery and tell them to be prepped in about twenty minutes."

The blood-free nurse nodded and quickly left the room.

"David?" the doctor asked while stepping up beside the bed. "We're going to give you a sedative so we can give you back your thumb before it's too late."

The patient weakly nodded.

"Alright, let's get this over with so you can go clean yourself up, eh Becky?"

The nurse chuckled, "Right."

**Day 2**

**Patient is discharged from the ER and sent back to his apartment.**

**There is an outbreak of the infection in the apartment complex late at night.**

David stumbled up the staircase leading to his apartment, pale-faced and covered in sweat. Dark lines peaked out from underneath his bandaged hand, etching across his veins. Leaning heavily against the wall, his good hand rifled through his pockets for his keys. Ugh, he felt like he was going to puke any second. He just needed to get inside, take some of the meds the doctor gave him, and lie down…then he'd be _just_ _fine_.

"Mr. Johnson? Deary, you don't look too well – my goodness, what happened to your hand!" an elderly woman cried as she shuffled around the injured man in worry.

David gave a weak wave, "I'm fine Marg-." Before he could finish, blood spewed from his mouth, spattering against the woman's face.

The old woman let out a disgusted scream before blindly retreating to her apartment. David, ignoring the woman, threw himself into his own apartment, stumbling to his bathroom to empty out the remainder of his stomach's contents.

**Day 3**

**An infectious outbreak is reported in the attending nurse's residential area.**

**CEDA is informed of the events.**

**3% of Fairfield is infected.**

A portly man, clad in a house robe and slippers, sprinted across his front lawn in absolute terror. Becky, or least what was formerly Becky, darted after him, gaining rapidly on the fleeing man. Blood oozed from between reddened teeth as milky eyes glared furiously at the retreating back before them. With a primal screech, Becky lunged at the frightened man, tackling him to the ground. Punches, scratches, and bites rained down on the man's defenseless backside as he struggled in vain to free himself.

A gasp from their left brought the Infected's attention away from its victim. A woman stood at her door a few feet away, newspaper in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. A look of horrified shock was plastered on her face. The Infected hissed and bounded toward the idle woman, leaving the injured man to writhe in pain on the ground. The coffee mug shattered against the porch, followed shortly by a scream of horror as the former human tackled the woman through the doorway.

As her cries reverberated through the open door, the large man struggled to his feet and limped away, oblivious to the milky hue that was forming over his eyes.

**Day 4**

**Blockades are established by local police on CEDA's urging.**

**A CEDA team arrives in the city.**

**10% of Fairfield is infected.**

"Details?" a somber-looking man demanded as we walked up to the Commissioner.

The older man heaved a sigh before running a hand through his graying hair, "We've had reports coming in left and right of people attack other people. Not with guns or weapons, just physically running up and mauling random people. The actions are spreading rapidly and we've counted at least fifty deaths from the matter."

"Anything else?"

"The autopsies have yielded unusual results in regards to blood sampling, that's why we've called you CEDA guys in to take a look."

The CEDA representative nodded, "Very well, take us to the bodies and we'll see what we can find."

**Day 5**

**CEDA is inconclusive in their results of the infection.**

**The constructed blockades are pushed back by the Infected crowds.**

**The National Guard is called in to help with the growing situation.**

**15% of Fairfield is infected.**

"Have you identified what it is?" a smartly dressed reporter questioned while holding up the tape recorder in her hand.

The man behind the podium stared out into the members of the press conference with tired eyes. Adjusting his glasses, the CEDA representative leaned toward the various microphones in front of him. "It is a virus, plain and simple."

Annoyed murmurs spread across the room until another reporter stood from his seat, not even bothering to wait for his cue. "That's all you know? Is that it's a virus?"

The sound of a throat clearing filled the speakers before the man in question chose to elaborate. "We've dubbed it the 'Green Flu,' and despite rumors, this is nothing like the rabies virus."

"Is there a cure?" A different reporter this time, barely even letting the man finish before firing off her question.

Another sigh, "At this time, CEDA has been unable to conclude a cure for this case."

"Is it airborne?"

"What about immunity?"

"How does it spread?"

A stern-looking man in fatigues stepped up the podium and glared at the room's occupants. "One question at a time, please; I will not say this again."

The scientist offered the soldier a nod of thanks before taking his former place. "Thus far, we cannot report of any cases of the virus being transmitted through the air. The Green Flu is transferred through direct contact with bodily fluids. Therefore, saliva, blood, pus, and bile pose the greatest risks of contamination."

The man brought a shaking hand to his glasses before glancing at the soldier, who shot him a look of warning before nodding his head sharply. "As for immunity…we have received word of cases; however, we were unable to retrieve said individuals for examination. Regardless, immunity is very probable."

The tension in the room seemed to subside briefly, until a weasel-looking individual shot out his seat, glaring up at the podium. "Is it true that the military has plans of quarantining the entire city of Fairfield, regardless that most of its populous still remains within the city limits, unharmed?"

CEDA's representative felt his mouth go dry at the accusation. The stunned man was suddenly shoved out of the way, the soldier from before taking his place. "Arrest that man!"

The security lining the room promptly tackled the man, handcuffing him amidst his shouts of protest. The soldier gave the weasel-faced reporter a cold, calculating look before turning to his captor. "Take him into holding, we'll find out who his sources are. This press conference is adjourned!"

The media roared in outrage, camera flashes filling the room as the stage's pair shuffled to the back room. The scientist pulled the frames from his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"What in God's name have I done?"

"You did exactly what you were told to do." The soldier answered while turning to face him.

A pleading look answered him, "But to lie about the immunity? Do you realize how many people I just killed with that statement?"

The soldier glowered down at the smaller man. "Far less than if you had told the truth, doc."

**Day 6**

**Quarantine is established around the Industrial Quarter of Fairfield.**

**CEDA issues citywide precautionary instructions to all uninfected inhabitants.**

**23% of Fairfield is infected.**

"What is this crap?" a large, gruff-looking biker muttered as he ripped a colorful poster from the wall of the bar. "'Wash your hands?' 'Maintain a healthy state of mind?' The hell _is_ this crap?"

"Francis! What the hell are you doing over there?" another biker called from the booth.

Francis trudged over to the table, throwing the papers down onto the wooden surface, "Again, what the hell is this about?"

The bearded biker lifted his sunglasses and peered at the colored posters, "Oh yeah, those things. CEDA's been throwing those around left and right, seems all those attacks and shit was caused by some kind of 'illness.'"

Francis scoffed, "Screw washing my hands, if any of those bastards come at me, I'll cure their little illness for them!" The biker emphasized his promise by punching his fist into his hand.

Francis' companion smirked, "Damn right! Now let's head out and meet up with the rest of the boys before you have to go to your hearing."

**Day 7**

**The Industrial Quarter is now fully infected.**

**The President declares a State of Emergency for the city.**

**30% of Fairfield is infected.**

Two girls sat in their dorm room, watching the television screen intently. One had dark brown hair that was tied into a ponytail and blue eyes. The other had green eyes and sandy blonde hair.

"What do you think the mayor's going to say, Zo?" the blonde woman asked without looking over.

Zoey shrugged in turn, "Probably the same crap they always say."

The two quieted down as a suit-clad man stepped up to the assortment of microphones attached to the podium. Beneath him sat a large group of reporters, all in which were on the edge of their seats.

"Good evening, as you all know, there have been recent events in the city that are threatening our very existence. Such events are difficult to ignore, given the quarantine that was erected around the Industrial Quarter hours ago. Brutal attacks and murders have been reported all across the city, as have reports of a strange sickness linked to these attacks. The CEDA group that has been called in to investigate this phenomenon has been inconclusive thus far. Therefore, the President has declared a State of Emergency for the city of Fairfield."

The reporters below immediately began to buzz and hammer the mayor with a roar of questions

The politician ignored them, "The National Guard has been called into to assist in maintaining the safety of our citizens, and in the event that the quarantine fails, will organize a citywide evacuation. That is all I have to say, thank you for your understanding in these hard times."

The press room exploded at the news, and various reporters shot out of their seats in order to get a comment from the mayor.

"Zoey?"

"Yeah?"

"…What's going to happen?"

"I don't know, Kim….I really don't know."

"…Are you still heading home for break?"

Zoey nodded while still staring at the screen. "Yeah…can't wait to hear what my mom has to say about my grades."

Kim offered a small smile at the brunette's sarcastic words. "Just be careful, okay?"

"…You too."

**Day 8**

**The quarantine fails in the Industrial Quarter.**

**National Guard begins to withdraw due to high casualties.**

**CEDA issues nationwide precautions regarding the plague that they have dubbed the "Green Flu."**

**42% of Fairfield is infected.**

"Sir, you need to evacuate the premises, the quarantine has been breached!" a rather frantic soldier ordered as he stood on the doorway of an apartment.

"And I told you that I'll leave when I'm good and ready," the elderly man on the other side of the doorframe answered slowly, his eyes desperately trying to focus.

The soldier let out an exasperated sigh, "You don't understand, this area is now at a high risk for infection!"

The bearded man rolled his eyes, "Son, I'm not moving an inch from this place 'til I want to. In the mean time, I suggest you worry about yourself."

The soldier was already moving back toward the stairwell, "Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you!"

Closing the door, the aging man made his way over to a chest behind a nearby couch, a slight limp in his step. The effects of the anesthesia were starting to wear off, but the slight rubbery feelings in his limbs still remained. Rummaging through its contents, he removed only four items. One was a fairly modern 9mm pistol, having seen very few uses in its lifetime from a glance. The second was a gun holster for said firearm, lying on top of a long-sleeved green jacket. Throwing on the jacket and holster, the senior citizen rolled up the sleeves and gazed at the fourth item in his hand.

It was a green beret with a small badge containing a sword and two crossed arrows. Graying blue eyes glazed over momentary before their owner shook his head. Resting the beret on his balding scalp, the former soldier moved toward the door, absentmindedly snatching up a pack of cigarettes from the table.

"Like hell I'll die in a dump like this…" Bill muttered as he pulled the handgun from its holster.

**Day 9**

**Remaining military and law-keeping forces erect a border separating the infection from the citizens.**

**Citywide evacuation procedures go into effect.**

**50% of Fairfield is infected.**

"Yes! Finally got in!" a dark-skinned man whispered in victory while standing near the front of a line that was slowly filing into a large bus. On either side of the line stood two armed and somber-looking soldiers, both refusing to make eye contact with any of the line's occupants.

Louis let relief wash over him as he loosened his tie; he was going to make it out of here, _finally_! Not a moment too soon either, this looked to be the last busload for quite some time. The moment they had started broadcasting the locations for the citywide evacuations, the businessman…**ex-**businessman, had said 'to hell with this job **and** the dead body in the bathroom' and booked it straight to the nearest checkpoint.

The bus was starting to look full; once the seats had run out, they began filing people into the aisle like a subway car. Louis unconsciously crossed his fingers as the back of the crowd inside the bus slowly inched its way closer to the driver's seat. The former junior systems analyst now stood at the front of the line, eyeing the bus interior with worry.

The driver glanced over his shoulder before turning to Louis, "Alright, room for one more."

Louis muttered a 'Thank God' before moving up the steel steps, turning around as he made it as far in as he could. Outside, now at the front of the line, stood a mother and her son, and Louis felt his smile drop. A devastated look was etched onto the woman's face, while the child, no more than six years old, was tugging on her sleeve, asking when the next bus was going to be. The mother bent down, reassuring her son that it wouldn't be long.

The folding door hissed as it began to close, obstructing Louis' few of the pair. On an impulse, his hand shot forward, stopping the door before it could shut all the way. Glancing back to the driver, he gave a pleading look before the door folded up once again.

Louis stepped onto the asphalt and gazed at the duo, "Come on, hurry up and get on. I don't think he'll sit around forever."

The mother looked flabbergasted, "But…what about you?"

The bald man allowed a grin to reach his lips, "I'll catch the next one, go ahead."

The mother offered him a tearful smile as she herded her son onto the bus, "Thank you…thank you so much. I don't think I can ever repay you."

"Just stay safe and we'll call it even."

The doors snapped shut, and Louis offered the pair a wave of goodbye as the vehicle drove off into the distance.

"…I am such a doormat."

**Day 10**

**The infection slips outside of Fairfield.**

**National Guard's protective border fails.**

**Evacuation procedures are abandoned in the panic.**

**57% of Fairfield is infected.**

A gloved fist smashed into the gnarled face of a female Infected, forcing the former human to stumble backwards. The body tripped over the street curb, causing the zombie to collapse on a bench in a twitching heap. The city block was littered with the corpses of the fallen, their blood caked onto the pavement. Derelict cars sat forlornly around them, having long since been abandoned by their owners. Small plumes of smoke rose from nearby buildings, towering toward the heavens and only succeeding in adding to the dire feeling that had swept across Fairfield in the past week.

Francis sneered as the Infected slowly rose to its feet, the biker hastily digging through his pockets in search of any remaining shells for the worn shotgun in his hand. Two rows of teeth gnashed together in irritation as muttered rambles left his lips.

"Damn bitch just won't stay down and let me reload my damn gun so I can **fucking shoot her!**" Francis cursed, roaring the last part aloud.

A scream left the Infected lips before it once again charged toward the large man, eyes ablaze with fury.

"For the love of…**God!**" The biker shouted, accentuating the end of his rant by slamming the butt of the firearm into the former human's forehead. The zombie fell back again in a daze.

Francis immediately reverted back into a reserved agitation, muttering to himself as he patted down his leather vest.

"Could've sworn I had a few more rounds left…"

The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps had the biker spinning around on instinct, bringing the empty shotgun up defensively just as another Infected tackled him to the ground. Brown eyes widened momentarily as they took in the appearance of their attacker. Broken sunglasses, a scruffy beard matted with blood, and an all-too-familiar tattoo running up the zombie's arm.

Francis growled, "Damnit, Dennis…Don't think I won't shoot your ass! Vampire or not!"

The former Dennis merely snarled in response and pushed down harder against the shotgun. Francis' brow knitted together in concentration as he struggled to keep his former friend at bay. Wait a second – where the hell was the other bitch? Shouldn't she be trying to bash his head in or something right about now?

The thought had barely finished running through the biker mind before half of Dennis' face was blown clean off, showering Francis in a mist of blood. The tattooed man grimaced in disgust before shoving the cadaver off of him. Craning his head around, Francis spotted an elderly man reloading a pistol, a few feet away lay the unmoving body of the female Infected.

"Who the hell are you?"

The aged man raised an eyebrow at the rather rude demand. As the biker rose to his feet, the older man snorted. "You're welcome."

Francis scoffed, but offered the other man a stiff nod. "Francis."

The elderly man shot the biker a sideways glance that was filled with a drop of suspicion. "…Bill."

**Day 11**

**National Guard establishes one final evacuation point on the roof of Mercy Hospital, the tallest building in Fairfield.**

**Riverside announces its fortification plans.**

**Infection radius now spans through central Pennsylvania.**

**Joint forces of military and CEDA are stationed in Newburg, just outside the infected zone.**

**70% of Fairfield is infected.**

The endless droning of the warning sirens was muffled – but still apparent – through the thin plaster walls of the dorm room. The incessant sound had been blaring for roughly three days now, but it was hard to tell the time inside a small, dark bathroom. Zoey had booked it straight to her dorm, knowing full well that – amid sobs and screams – there was nothing she could do for her parents. She had to get back; she had to find Kim…to _warn_ her. It was shortly after she had returned that her roommate had come bursting through their door in hysteria, covered in blood, and vomiting an odd pink substance. Zoey had been so shocked at her friend's sudden entrance that she hadn't noticed the body sprawled across the hallway floor or the fresh blood splatters that were oozing down the once light blue walls. Kim's milky eyes had immediately set their sights on Zoey, set ablaze with a fury that was simply…inhuman.

Kim had attacked Zoey before the brunette had a chance to recover from her initial shock, and various cuts and scratches were the results. However, some struggling and a bloody baseball bat later, and Kim's lifeless corpse was lying on the carpeted floor, her skull cracked open. Zoey had instantly retreated to the bathroom, locking the door as soon as it was shut. The next handful of hours was filled with the screams of her fellow classmates – terrified, bloodcurdling shrieks of pain and death. Despite the bone-chilling racket emitting outside, Zoey would have preferred it over the ungodly silence that had been gnawing at her sanity over the last couple of days. At least with the screaming, it meant that some one out there was still alive…for the time being anyway. Now, with the stench of blood and death filling the air, and the only distinguishable sound being the blasted sirens…Zoey felt the trepidation begin to consume her.

Gunfire from inside the building broke Zoey from the folds of her ever approaching mental collapse. The brunette cautiously hauled herself out of the bathtub and toward the door. Meekly pressing her ear to the wooden barrier, the young woman flinched as another blast rang out – this time **much** closer. The fire died down, replaced by faint footsteps and a rather heated argument.

"The 'radio' we were looking for was fucking broke as shit. **Why** the hell are we still here?" Demanded a rough voice from out in the hallway.

A loud sigh emitted from the neighboring room, an older voice snapping after it. "Because we're looking for supplies and any other survivors."

"Fat chance of that." The other voice had muttered in response.

Through the door, Zoey could hear the two strangers move down the hall closer to her room. The brunette swallowed hard. Should she go out there? They were, after all, **not** zombies, and that was certainly a plus. However, what if they were thugs? Just because they were looking for survivors didn't mean they wanted to help them. Hell, what if they were just out to kill people? They could just as well murder her on the spot…or worse.

Zoey felt a shiver of dread run up her spine at the horrid thought that crossed her mind. She couldn't just stay in her bathroom forever - that much she knew. She had run out of the snacks Kim and her had kept in the mini fridge yesterday. Before long, she'd end up dying of starvation. It seemed as if her only option was the two unknowns creeping through her dorm.

"Did you hear that?"

The young woman sucked in a breath and swung the bathroom door open just as a shotgun blast rang out from just outside her room. Zoey froze mid-movement as a large man in a leather vest fell backwards into the adjacent room, holding back a bloodied zombie. The former human screamed and clawed at the biker, who merely roared back in response while planting a booted foot on the Infected's chest.

"Hold still, damnit!" the older voice barked, forcing Zoey to turn her attention away from the struggling pair.

"Keep your bra on, Bill! I got this!" the biker shouted. With a grunt, the large man pushed the Infected away with his outstretched foot. The former human staggered back through the open door, almost colliding with the elderly man.

"Now!"

Three gunshots later and the older man entered the room again as the biker rose to his feet. Zoey, catching a full glimpse of the two, decided that they didn't look like the friendliest bunch. The brunette slowly stepped back into the bathroom, praying that neither of them had noticed her.

Too late.

The small movement had caught both of their eyes, and the duo's attention instantly snapped to her. Zoey stood frozen in fear, looking like a dear in headlights as the newcomers stared at her.

The biker stepped forward. "Well what do we have here?"

Zoey shrunk back as the tattooed man towered over her, eyeing her from head to toe with an indescribable look.

"Lay off, Francis. You're scaring her." Bill muttered while pushing past the larger man, who merely sneered in response.

The green-clad man kneeled so that he was at eye-level with Zoey. Bill's hardened eyes softened as he took in her appearance. "We're not going to hurt you."

Despite the obvious statement, Zoey felt her muscles relax at the senior's tone of voice.

"My name's Bill, the big lug behind me is Francis. Don't worry 'bout him though, his bark's bigger than his bite."

A scoff emitted from behind the veteran.

Bill ignored the biker, "What's your name?"

The young woman cleared her throat, "Zoey."

Francis poked his head over Bill's shoulder, "Well Zoey, we're trying to get the hell out of here. Wanna tag along?"

**Day 12**

**Communication outside of Fairfield is severed.**

**CEDA: Gone**

**Military: Last remnants reside in Mercy Hospital.**

**Infection slips past Newburg city limits.**

**The United States is in a state of unrest.**

**84% of Fairfield is infected.**

**2% of Newburg is infected.**

Louis huddled further beneath the stairwell, fearful eyes staring through the small gaps between the steps. In the doorway before him was the carcass of a police officer. The corpse had been ripped in two at the waist, a string of intestine the only thing connecting the two halves amongst the bloody mess. From his vantage the businessman could see the cadaver's face, an expression of pure agony forever frozen on its features. Louis pressed himself even further into the corner, futilely trying to block the horrible scene from his view.

He should have just stayed on the bus and gotten the _hell_ out of here, but _no_, he just had to be nice and give away what may have very well been his _only_ chance of getting out of the city _alive_. Louis hated being the 'nice guy,' the title that everyone seemed to think they could use to walk all over him. Did he mind? _Hell yes_ he minded! Karma had been his drive for the majority of his life. He figured that if he did nothing but nice things for others, one day people would do the same for him.

Fat chance of that happening _now_.

The emergency sirens had ceased their call roughly an hour or so ago. Louis wanted to believe that the droning had merely run its course and the system had deactivated on its own. However, he had a sneaking suspicion that it was because their operators were…well…

Brown eyes risked a glance at the corpse in the doorway, and their owner shuddered at the thought.

A sharp _clank_ from above brought Louis quickly back to reality, his gaze drifting upward fearfully. The sounds grew in number and repetition: footsteps. Someone was moving down the stairwell, but who?

…Or rather, _what_?

The businessman held his breath, not even daring to move as the intruders descended down the final set of stairs. There were three in all…at least from what he could see. None of their faces were in view, still obscured by the upper steps. The one in the lead was wearing some old-fashioned fatigues, a pistol clutched tightly in a wrinkled hand. The other two had hung back on the stairwell, their legs and feet the only indicators visible to Louis. On the left was a pair of boots, large and masculine…definitely a man. To the right was a pair of Converse, and judging from the stance, belonged to a woman.

"I don't think he's getting up…"

The gruff voice vibrated through the air, carrying a hint of brashness and pitilessness, although the volume had been reduced to something barely above a whisper.

"Gee…ya think?"

A light tone responded with sarcasm…certainly a woman's voice. The boots shifted slightly as their owner shot the woman a look of annoyance. With the action, the barrel of a shotgun fell into Louis' view. The dark-skinned man swallowed the lump in his throat, a nervous sweat dotting his brow. He had been debating on whether or not he should make himself known…

…Now he was having his doubts.

What if they just decided to kill him on the spot? They certainly had the tools for it…but what if they were just survivors trying to escape? Oh god, what if they saw his bite? He'd seen enough zombie films to know what a bite meant.

"Shush…you hear that?"

Louis shot out from the stairwell, flailing his arm above his head frantically – not the best decision in hindsight – while shouting. "Please, you gotta help…"

The back of his mind was vaguely aware that his cries were echoing up the entire stairwell before a hand clamped tightly over his mouth, effectively silencing him. Louis felt his back hit the wall, the barrel of a pistol pushing against the bottom of his chin. A small, muffled whimper escaped his throat as two weathered blue eyes burned holes through his.

"Shut up." Bill ordered swiftly, silencing the businessman with a mere glare. "Now, are you going to scream?"

Louis shook his head quickly.

"Are you lying to me?"

Another shake of his head.

"Good…now if you want to stay alive, I suggest you come with us. Stay low, stay quiet, and if I event **think** that you're about to freak out on us, I'm going to let Francis have at you."

The large biker grinned menacingly from behind the veteran. "Don't worry, I'll be gentle."

Stricken by fear, Louis could only nod dumbly as the two men trudged past him. Zoey picked up the rear, giving the businessman a sympathetic look.

"Don't worry, they grow on you."

The businessman followed quickly like a whipped dog, completely unsure of what had just transpired. Before he knew it, Louis found himself outside of the building next to a desolate blockade. Derelict newspapers proclaiming the doomsday lay scattered throughout the street, a corpse dotting the pavement every now and then. Something wet suddenly hit Louis in the face, causing the businessman to blink in confusion. Glancing up, he narrowly avoided being hit in the eye by another drop.

It had begun to rain…

**Day 13**

**Riverside completes its fortifications, refuses entry to outsiders.**

**The Green Flu undergoes mutation, producing a new level of infection.**

**Mercy Hospital begins to fall to the infection.**

**91% of Fairfield is infected.**

**5% of Newburg is infected.**

"Go! Go! Go!" A soldier roared as the panicked hospital staff fled past him. The crowd of terror-stricken people funneled into the stairwell, desperate to reach the fourth floor. That was where the military was establishing their new line of defense; they'd be safe there…

…Right?

The soldier cursed as he spotted an Infected bound around the corner down the hall, garbed in only a bloodied hospital gown.

A patient…a recent infected human…

The thunderous repetitions from his assault rifle echoed down the narrow hallway. Ribbons of crimson spurted from the Infected's chest, bloodstained hands clawing at the wounds in vain. The former human collapsed in a heap, unmoving, leaving the soldier to wipe the nervous sweat from his face. He remained frozen for a moment, hitched breathes and the muffled anxious voices from above the only sounds in the now desolate hall.

It was a bloodbath…plain and simple.

Lifeless corpses littered the floor, fresh blood still oozing onto the tiles. Overturned gurneys lay scattered about, some still supporting the recently deceased…abandoned by their caretakers in a moment of fear. Nearer to him were the cadavers of fallen soldiers, their firearms clutched in the vices of a death-grip.

A soft groaning suddenly filled the area, emitting from one of the derelict examination rooms. Raising his firearm, the soldier cautiously moved forward while avoiding the debris whenever he could. The groans became more persistent, almost to the point where they sounded painful. Edging into the room, the soldier couldn't quite prepare himself for what he saw.

Strewn across the exam table was a humanoid figure…or at least, it was _once_ humanoid. Its midsection was bloated to a ridiculous proportion with large, puss-filled boils dotting the exposed areas of flesh. The soldier had never seen anything like it in his entire life…even with all of the recent events with Green. The creature tossed and turned on the table, seemingly lost in a cloud of pain.

The soldier cleared his throat. "Sir, can you hear me?"

The bloated human stiffened momentarily, the action causing an unsettling feeling to build in the soldier's stomach. Slowly, the prone human's head turned around, milky-red eyes staring a hole through him.

Milky-red eyes…**oh shit**!

Before the soldier could lift his rifle in time, the bloated creature vomited a green bile-like substance all over him. The stench was horrendous, and it took all of his willpower not to puke on the spot. He stumbled out of the room in a blind stupor, futilely attempting to wipe the substance from his eyes. Even through his gagging and dry-heaving, the soldier could distinguish the sounds out rapidly approaching footsteps.

A wave of Infected surged around the corner at the far end of the hallway…

In a desperate bid to survive, the soldier took off down the opposite end of the hall, ascending the staircase in leaps. He tore through the cafeteria in a frenzy, his heart hammering in his ears. The soldier felt himself trip when his left leg refused to move. Glancing down at the limb, he discovered a long, pink tongue-like appendage wrapped around it. The poor man didn't even have enough time follow the tendril to its source before he was yanked off his feet. He gripped and clawed at the carpeted floor in vain, trying everything he could to stop his movement.

Fear dominated his actions, and the soldier ripped his knife from its sheath on his other boot. Chopping wildly, he managed to sever the vile appendage and – without looking back – broke into full sprint toward the staircase. He barely made it a handful of steps before the sounds of shattering glass and a primal screech brought his attention skyward. A blue blur slammed into him, once again knocking the soldier off his feet.

The last thing he saw was a flurry of claws and a maniacal grin…

**Day 14**

**Point Echo in Alleghany National Forest is established.**

**Riverside is breached, no escape for residents.**

**Military begins taking extreme measures against the infection in Newburg.**

**98% of Fairfield is infected.**

**20% of Riverside is infected.**

**10% of Newburg is infected.**

"Let us in! Please, we're begging you, here!" A distraught man cried out while clutching at the chain link fence that stood before him. "Come on, I have a child with me!"

The soldiers beyond the barrier refused to yield, the officer at the front staring at the man with cold neutrality. "Riverside is closed, find some place else."

The civilian stared abhorred at the military presence in front of him. "For God's sake, have a heart!"

When the man attempted to push at the fence, the barrel of a rifle pressed against his forehead. "Final warning…find some place else."

Frightened, the man complied and slowly backed away until the soldier lowered his firearm. A small tug on his pant leg forced him to glance down at the little girl by his side. "Are they gonna let us in, daddy?"

Kneeling before his daughter, the man placed a hand on her shoulder. "Of course they are, sweetie…it's just that there's so many people here that it'll just take a little while…that's all."

The child sniffled. "Okay…it's just really scary here…"

The father pulled his daughter into a hug, taking the opportunity to glance around the large tunnel around them. Cars were backed up as far as his eyes could make out, a sea of people surging forward in hopes of being allowed access to the 'zombie-proof' Riverside. It was an act fueled by illogical means and fear…

…An act of desperation…

He was aware of how foolish it was to believe such a thing: that a city could actually be resistant to the infection…but he was simply out of options. His daughter needed protection, and Riverside could provide that more than he could. The child in his arms cringed and buried herself deeper into his embrace as a heated commotion began to build on the far side of the fence. The father glanced over his shoulder at the source of the ruckus: a small cluster of people shouting and pushing at the fenced barrier. The soldiers on the other end were matching the group blow for verbal blow, both sides looking to be at the snapping point.

It was when one of the soldiers lifted their firearm that he felt his eyes widen in horror.

_No…they wouldn't actually do it…would they?_

The deafening blast – amplified by the tunnel's shape – shocked the entire area into an eerie stillness. The mob of angry citizens stood frozen, mirroring their soldier counterparts on the other side…

…Crimson…

…A smoking barrel…

A person at the forefront of the mob collapsed backward, falling into his companions behind him…covering them in his blood. The scene before them was so shocking…so appalling…that no one noticed the tunnel's ceiling quiver in small tremors. The horrified scream that emitted from the outside of the barrier was drowned out by the loud groan from above.

The ceiling collapsed inward, bricks and fragments of cement raining down on the masses below. A large segment of the curved ceiling collapsed onto the barrier, crushing the fence as if it were nothing at all. Terrified screams echoed throughout the tunnel as citizens and soldiers alike backed away from the disaster. The father shielded his daughter against the oncoming debris, wincing as a few of the sharper pieces cut into his back. Whirling around, the pair found themselves face-to-face with a thick cloud of dust.

"What on earth could've caused the whole ceiling to collapse?" The man muttered to no one in particular.

As the smoke cleared, his eyes widened…

Humanoid silhouettes…

…_Shambling_ humanoid silhouettes...and more were dropping from the newly formed hole above them.

A few of the figures stiffened for barely even a heartbeat, their heads snapping toward the humans on either side of the rubble. A brief shriek signaled the end…

…And then they lunged into the masses…

Screams of both terror and agony reverberated throughout the tunnel as the Infected ripped through the large cluster of people. The soldiers frantically began to open fire into the walls of bodies, hitting Infected and non-Infected alike. Instincts taking over, the father snatched up his daughter and dashed toward the nearest car, flinging the door open in a panic. Stuffing themselves into the vehicle, he slammed the door shut, peering over the dashboard at the bloodbath around him.

At least they were somewhat safe in here…

The thought had barely manifested itself within the man's mind when a large piece of cement smashed into the hood of the car. The vehicle skidded back several feet, coming to a painful stop as the pair within attempted to recover.

"What the hell was…that…?"

The father felt himself trail off, his mouth hanging open in an expression crossed between disbelief and horror.

On the other side of the ruined fence…the large pile of rubble…began to _move._

A large, meaty arm – thicker than the trunk of an oak tree – shot through the pile of rock, heaving its body from the debris. The creature could barely even be considered humanoid with the state of its appearance…_monster_ was more like it. As the chaos ensued around the leviathan, it gave an earthshaking roar and bounded forward…

…Straight toward their hiding place…

As the beast swung a heavy arm back, the father threw open the car door, shoving his daughter out of the vehicle an instant before it was sent sailing through the air. The car, like a kicked can, flipped once before crashing upside down into a cluster of derelict vehicles a few meters away.

The child slid to a stop, bruised and cut up from the harsh landing on the glass-littered asphalt. Blearily glancing around, she collapsed back in fear as the large monstrosity towered overhead, glaring at her with milky-red eyes. Frozen, the little girl could only stare up with watery eyes as her destroyer loomed over her.

She didn't want to die…she wanted her daddy…

The beast suddenly stood rigid for a moment, its muscled body twitching ever so slightly. With a grunt, the large Infected twisted around, glaring at the shaking soldier a few feet away. Hastily reloading his rifle, the officer resumed his efforts in filling the creature with lead. A few of the bullets strayed from their mark, piercing into one of the Infected's arms. Spurts of blood shot out of the wounds, flying in all directions…

Some of splashing against the child's face…most notably…

…Her _eyes_.

As the massive Infected lunged at the screaming soldier, the little girl wiped the blood from her face. Standing on quivering legs, she numbly walked toward the overturned car, oblivious to the gory deaths occurring all around her. Reaching the decimated vehicle, the child dropped to her knees and grasped at the lifeless, bloodstained hand jutting out from the crumpled window.

"…Papa…?"

The hand did not move in acknowledgement, causing the child to tear up.

"…Papa!"

The daughter let out a mournful sob, crying into the motionless limb in her tiny hands. Around her, the Infected took no interest in the mourning child, focusing on the few survivors that still remained.

Because to them…she wasn't human…

…She was already one of them.

Amid the bloodcurdling screams echoing from the tunnel, the weeping of the Witch rose in volume.

**

* * *

**

-(,,,,,/-\-((o.O))-/-\,,,,,)-

**A/N: Want to know the sad part about this? This prologue is most likely going to be longer than any of the actual chapters…by a relatively large margin, too. For those who know me, I am whore when it comes to mood-setting…especially for an apocalyptic scenario (just look at 'No Man's Land,' a one-shot specifically created to set the tone for both games), so needless to say, I had fun writing this. This piece was originally going to be the prologue for 'Ties that Bind,' but I figured why add a prologue to a drabble project? So many things to say about this, so I'll be cheap and only list a few:**

**Originally had more days…but then the chapter would never end, so I stopped at fourteen to add the sense of a prologue to the first L4D.**

**Lying about the possibility of immunity for an unstoppable pandemic seems like the kind of douche move our government would do.**

**Anyone else notice how the gaps between the days keep getting longer and longer as the chapter progresses?**

**This story will be loosely tied to 'Ties that Bind,' if you haven't read it, no big deal…it won't be too relevant. However, if you want to check it out, you can (cue the cheesy thumbs-up). **

**'Red' will be a relatively small project, roughly fifteen chapters in all. It'll include both groups of survivors (minus Bill of course), two custom types of Infected (I swear on everything of value to me that they aren't half bad in terms of development…nothing that you'd see in the game, but they work in the L4D universe.), and a handful of OC side characters (I promise not to attention-whore them…I've learned my lesson from 'Call of the Grave.')**

**Lastly, for any confusion on the little girl's infection…think Frank from ****28 Days Later****.**

**As always, reviews and feedback are appreciated.**

**- C.C.**


	2. Picking up the Pieces

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Left 4 Dead franchise, Valve does.**

The Red Tide

By: Confused Confusion

-(,,,,,/-\-((o.O))-/-\,,,,,)-

* * *

Chapter 1: Picking up the Pieces

"_To live in the hearts we leave behind…is to not die."_ - Thomas Campbell

* * *

"_I'll see peace back on Earth if I gotta murder every one of these bastards with my bare goddamn hands!"_

…

_What happened to all that talk, old man? _

_What happened to 'the plan?' _

_What happened to looking after our own? _

_Was that all just a bunch of crap? _

_Did you even __**mean**__ any of it?_

…_Why?_

"Bill!"

Francis snapped back to reality in a numb haze, glancing over at the source of the shouting.

Zoey had collapsed at the end of the bridge, her pale hands gripping the edge for support as she screamed at the fiery mess below them. "Come on, Bill! Start shouting out orders, or start shooting zombies, or…something!"

The distraught brunette was visibly shaking, and it was impossible to _not_ hear the sobs welling up within her.

"Damn it, Bill! At least _move_!"

Francis felt himself inwardly flinch as the young woman's voice finally cracked. Tearing his eyes away from the pitiful sight, the biker turned to Louis, who sat against one of the steel arches with his head in his hands. The businessman's Uzi was tossed to the side in a forgotten heap, having been discarded moments earlier with an emotional cry of defeat. The air around them darkened, causing the pair of vacant brown eyes to glance skyward.

Storm clouds were rolling in from the coast…

The large survivor felt his gaze drift back down, settling on the empty SPAS at his feet. Francis cursed the shotgun…cursed its uselessness…but above all…

…Cursed himself.

If only he had been less trigger-happy and conserved his ammo more…he may have made the difference…

…Bill could've still been alive.

No. The old bastard wasn't dead…he was too stubborn to die…

Francis felt his legs carry him to the edge of the bridge until he was standing beside Zoey's quivering form. The last of the flames from Bill's Molotov were dying out, the charred remains of the Tanks and Infected the only things occupying the street.

"Alright, Bill, the fire's out! Now get your old ass out here so I can kick the shit out of it!"

A tense silence and Zoey's sob were the all that answered him.

Francis let out a tense chuckle, "Okay…joke's over, old man! Seriously, get out here!"

Still the silence lingered, and Francis felt his breath hitch.

"I swear to God, Bill; if you don't get out here right now, I'm going to come down there and _kill_ you myself!"

"Francis!"

The biker whirled around, staring wild-eyed as Louis raised his head from his hands, revealing puffy, red eyes. "That's enough, man...just…just accept it."

Francis ground his teeth together in growing frustration, gloved hands balling tightly into shaking fists. Something small hit the asphalt by his boot, breaking him from his rage-induced trance. The sound was soft, barely audible by itself…

And then another hit…and then another…. then another.

Rain began to fall in quick succession, rapidly blanketing the area in a dreary haze. The tattooed survivor glanced around, discovering that they were completely out in the open. He wasn't an expert on weather, but Francis knew well enough that prolonged exposure to the elements was never a good thing. The biker momentarily pushed Bill's potential fate from his mind, focusing instead on those still alive. Crouching down, the gruff man gave Zoey a gentle shake.

The brunette muttered something incoherent in response.

"Come on, Zo…we need to get out of the rain."

Zoey shoved Francis away as he tried to help her up. "It's raining now…so he must be dead…"

The biker felt his eyes widen. "_What?_"

The young woman turned to face him, meeting him with lost, hopeless – almost _lifeless_ – blue orbs. Francis stepped back, stunned by the expression on Zoey's face.

"Louis, can you move?"

"Right behind you." The slightly pained reply came as the businessman limped up to his companions.

The larger man glanced at the brunette before him, unsure of what to do. Louis nodded and knelt on his good leg, forcing Zoey to look at him.

The youngest of the trio seemed to just stare past the injured man, her babbling slowly rising in volume.

"It's raining…he has to be dead…"

"Zoey…"

"That's how it works in the movies…it starts raining when they die…"

Louis frowned and did the most logical thing he could think of.

…He slapped her.

Zoey gingerly brought a hand to her reddening cheek, eyes as wide as they could be.

"I'm sorry, Zo…but we need you to snap out of it. There's a boarded up building over there, I'm pretty sure we can climb on over…"

_Slap!_

Louis' head jerked to the side, his expression twisting into a surprised cringe. Zoey glared furiously at her companion through watery eyes.

"He hasn't even been dead for five minutes and you're already carrying on as if you never even knew him!"

The businessman matched Zoey's glare with an uncharacteristic one of his own. "There's nothing more we can do for him, Zo! His sacrifice won't mean shit if we end up dying from sickness just because we were too stupid to get out of the goddamn rain!"

Zoey sucked in a deep breath, preparing to shout at the bald survivor some more, but was cut off when she felt herself being lifted off the ground. With a squeak of surprise, the brunette's head whipped around feverishly, discovering a tattooed arm around her midsection. A startled cry of shock revealed Louis to be in the same predicament. Both survivors glanced up at Francis, whose face remained an emotionless mask.

Without a word, the biker rapidly covered the distance from the bridge to the catwalk, stopping in front of a boarded-up doorway. Francis dropped Zoey unceremoniously onto the metal grating, followed shortly by shoving Louis against the brick wall. The businessman braced himself against the wall, trying to keep as much weight off of his injured leg as he could.

Francis gripped the doorframe tightly before sending his foot crashing through the barricade. The majority of the board collapsed into the room from the force of the kick, the remainder easily dispensed with by the biker's massive frame. Removing the magnum from his thigh, the tattooed survivor quickly scanned the derelict room, letting out a grunt upon finding it devoid of Infected.

Zoey and Louis gaped at their large friend as he holstered the firearm and stepped forth from the room. Ignoring both survivors, the biker trudged past them back to the bridge.

The brunette glanced over at the businessman. "Sorry…about snapping at you."

Louis shrugged, eyeing Francis' form as the older survivor retrieved the discarded weapons. "I shouldn't have slapped you anyway…if anyone should be apologizing, it's me."

The two parted as Francis returned, carelessly dumping the armful of guns into the dark room. Eyeing his two sodden companions, the biker nudged his head toward the open doorway. "Get in before you guys catch something…I'm going for a walk."

Louis blinked. "A walk? In this weather?"

The businessman felt realization dawn on him as he stared into Francis' brown eyes. The larger man was holding something back…something he had to get off of his chest…

…Something he didn't them to see.

After a moment, the bald survivor nodded. "Yeah…a walk…alright."

The older man nodded in return before turning on his heel, trudging back toward the bridge.

"Francis!" Zoey called out while reaching out toward the biker's retreating back.

A hand caught her shoulder, forcing her to shoot Louis a questioning glance. The businessman shook his head. "Let him grieve in his own way."

"He can't just go wandering off by himself! He'll get killed!" The brunette shouted incredulously.

Louis turned to stare after Francis. "None of the Infected can reach us up here. The only way Francis can get hurt is if he does it himself."

Ocean blue eyes followed Francis' silhouette in worry as it faded into the torrential rain.

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of…"

* * *

Francis stopped on the catwalk, his legs having carried him over to the other side of the bridge. The building he had left Zoey and Louis in was no longer visible through the wall of rain, and the howling wind was at its pinnacle from his height. The biker paced back and forth, desperately trying to sort out his thoughts.

_Dammit, Bill! Why? You were always the one with the plan. Well, what the fuck happened to your plan?_

Francis ceased his pacing, his gloved hands gripping at the steel railing in rage.

"Why the hell did you have to go and die?"

He ran a trembling hand over his shaven head.

"What the fuck are we supposed to do now? Just run off to that damn island and pretend none of this happened?"

Francis felt something within him snap, and – with a shout – punched the large support beam behind him. The trembling that had plagued his hand soon engulfed his entire body as brown eyes furiously snapped shut.

"How the fuck could you just go and abandon them like that?"

The biker felt his legs give way, the large survivor falling to his knees in a broken heap. As his shoulders began to shake uncontrollably, Francis stared down at his open palms. Louis had once joked that the biker could go toe-to-toe with a Tank in an arm wrestling match. The light comment had come shortly after Francis had literally charged single-handedly through a horde of Infected that were swarming over a bile-covered Louis. The larger of the two had thrown Louis over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and then proceeded to muscle his way back through the throng of former humans, using his shotgun like a club to swat them away. It had been obvious that Francis' actions had impressed the businessman, as his later jokes and jabs had turned from mocking his intelligence to blowing his strength out of proportion.

Continuing to stare a hole through his hands, Francis gnashed his teeth together.

If his hands were so strong…

…Then how come they let one of his companions die?

Francis balled his hands into fists while tilting his head back to look up at the lightning-stricken sky. Inwardly, he was thankful for the storm…the rain and the wind…

…Because of them, no one would be able to hear his anguished roar or see his tears mingling with the raindrops.

He wasn't sure how long he had stayed in that position, staring up at the rain in a grief-stricken stupor, but he had eventually moved down to the edge of the catwalk. There he leaned on the railing, staring numbly down at the Infected-filled street on the other side of the river. Francis paid no particular interest to the former humans as they shambled about. Some of them clawed at each other, others leaned mindlessly against the walls of buildings, and a handful huddled around the few still-working streetlights in the area.

What _did_ catch his attention, however, was when a pair of headlights tore through the curtain of rain. The car slammed through the various Infected that stood in its path, its tires screeching to a halt as the vehicle stopped in front of the bridge. The blue Dodge Daytona sat idly for a few minutes before the engine finally killed. The doors shot open, revealing a motley crew of four people.

The group of newcomers stared in disappointment at the raised bridge. They conversed briefly, although Francis couldn't hear over the wind. The discussion seemed more like an argument as the one in the white suit was flailing his arms at the younger man in the hat. The woman pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation until the portly man finally separated the two bickering companions. After some words by the larger man, the group's shoulders seemed to sag before they trudged back to the car in defeat.

Francis had a hunch of what they were wanting…and after what they went through to get the damn thing up, there was _no way_ he was going to lower the bridge just like that. Survivors or not, it was best to just let them leave and find another way around.

"Hey, you up there!"

Shit.

Francis glared down at the hat-wearing man who was waving both arms at him. The wind died down slightly, allowing both parties to hear each other.

The biker ground his teeth together. "What?"

The younger man stopped his waving, taken aback by the harsh response.

The portly man shook his head in disbelief. "Well I'll be damned…another survivor!"

The suited man glared up at Francis. "Sounds like an asshole to me."

The biker in question frowned, suddenly feeling rather aggressive. "Come up here and say that to my face, Suit."

The 'Suit' stepped forward challengingly, but was held back by the larger man. "That's enough, Nick!"

The woman stepped closer to the bridge, trying her hand at conversation. "My name's Rochelle. What's yours?"

Nick slapped his forehead. "Ro, stop flirting with the asshole."

Francis cut off whatever retort Rochelle was about to send Nick's way. "What makes you think I wanna give you my name?"

Rochelle shrugged off the biker's rudeness. "Fair enough…can you at least lower the bridge for us?"

"And why would I do that?" Francis drawled with disinterest.

Nick moved forward, pulling out a pistol from its holster on his belt. "Because I'll shoot you if you don't, you greasy, vest-wearing monkey!"

Francis glanced at the suited man in boredom. "Do I look scared to you, Colonel Sanders?"

"Colonel…" Nick huffed in disbelief, obviously fighting the ever-growing urge to shoot the elevated biker.

"Why wouldn't you?" Rochelle pressed, ignoring her companion's indignity.

Francis sighed and glared down at the dark-skinned woman. "We lost someone getting this damn thing up…someone who was irreplaceable, and I'm not about to endanger another one of mine lowering it."

Rochelle frowned. "Listen, I'm sorry for your loss…I really am. I know that we don't have to right to ask you to do such a thing…"

"The hell we don't…" Nick muttered under his breath.

The younger woman ignored him. "But we're desperate here. We're immune and we just want to make it to New Orleans to get evacuated…please."

Francis perked up at 'immune,' shooting the four a suspicious look before sighing in defeat. "I can't lower the damn thing from this side, and I'm pretty sure the generator is out of gas."

Defeat washed over the four's faces.

"Tell you what, though…if you guys can hoof it and find your way across the river alive…then I'll help you out with the bridge."

Nick stepped forward angrily. "Are you shitting me…?"

The portly man pulled Nick backward, taking his place. "I don't like it…but I don't suppose we have any other choice in the matter."

The biker shrugged.

Hard brown eyes stared up at the tattooed survivor. "You can call me Coach… we'll be willing to play ball so long as you hold up your end of the bargain, but I'm not sure I can trust a man who won't even give up his name."

"…It's Francis."

Coach nodded. "Alright then, see you on the other side, Francis."

The biker watched as the four began moving away from the car and into town, an unreadable expression on his face. Once they were out of sight, Francis made his way back across the catwalk. It was an extremely long shot, but if they really wanted across the river, they had to earn it. He wasn't about to risk Louis' or Zoey's lives going down to refill the damn generator. If Coach wanted the bridge down, he'd have to refill the damn thing himself.

Francis stepped into the dimly lit room, met by an angry Zoey and a relieved Louis.

The brunette seemed to hold back as she punched his shoulder. "Don't wander off like that again…I don't want to lose another…"

Reaching over, Francis placed a hand on Zoey's head – a gesture he had seen Bill use – and nodded. "Yeah, I know…I'll try not to next time."

Louis exchanged nods with the older man. "We found some ammunition in those crates in the corner…so at least we have some bullets now."

Francis let out a positive hum. "Good…would hate to go down there with just my bad intentions; need something to back it up, ya know?"

The businessman chuckled. "Yeah, I hear ya."

Zoey peeked outside, sending the sky a quick glance before retreating back into the room. "Storm doesn't look like it's going to let up anytime soon. It'd be a bad idea to set sail in this shit…better to just wait till it passes."

Francis nodded. "Was going to ask that we stick around for a while anyway."

"Why?"

The biker glanced at Louis briefly before staring straight ahead. "Met some other survivors on the other end of the bridge…they need the bridge lowered so they can get their car across."

"Wait…they asked for _what_?"

Zoey ignored Louis' rising aggravation. "What did you tell them?"

"I told them that if they could hoof over to this side and refill the generator…we'd pop the thing down for 'em."

The brunette shook her head. "That seems a little harsh…it would've been easier if one of us just went down and…"

"**No**."

Zoey blinked at Francis. "No?"

The biker frowned down upon the shorter survivor. "I'm not about to risk the two of you for a group of strangers who can't even get along."

At Louis' quirked eyebrow, Francis shook his head. "You don't wanna know. Regardless, if they want to get across that river, they need to earn it."

"So…what now?" Louis inquired from his seat.

Francis glanced over his shoulder at the storm outside. "We wait. If they make it, they make it; if not…well, we can't save everyone."

Zoey flinched at the familiar words, but nodded in assent.

* * *

"Thanks for the help, y'all!" Coach shouted as the four sprinted down the now-lowered bridge.

Ellis paused and glanced up at the catwalk. "Hey, you sure you guys don't wanna come to 'Nawlins' with us?"

"Nah, we'll get by in our own way." Louis smiled while waving at the mechanic.

The younger man shrugged. "Suit yourselves…good luck to ya!"

"You too!"

The trio watched as the Daytona peeled across the bridge, ramming through any unfortunate Infected that stood in its path. As the race car drifted out of sight, Louis glanced at his companions. "You think we should've told them?"

Francis shook his head. "Even if they _are_ like us…they'll find out on their own time, and who knows, maybe they actually _are_ immune."

Zoey turned to them. "We still should've at least mentioned _something_."

"Nothing we can do about it now." The biker replied as he ducked his head into the room, punching a button on the wall as he did so.

The bridge groaned as the gears sent the structure upward once more. Zoey nodded reluctantly, sparing the building across the street a mournful glance before following the biker into the room. Their stuff was gathered in relative silence, the walk to the riverbank: even more so.

Nothing could quite prepare them for what the witnessed when they reached the water…

A scream ripped from Zoey's throat as she collapsed to her knees. Louis was vaguely aware that his Uzi had slipped from his hand, clattering uselessly onto the soft ground. The businessman felt his own throat tighten as he took in the sight that lay before them.

"How…?"

The sailboat, their means of a permanent escape…was utterly trashed.

Francis let out a primal snarl as he kicked at the dirt, curses flying from his mouth in a fury. Louis swallowed dryly, slowly shaking his head in disbelief.

"This…this can't be happening…"

"Well," Francis growled out while glaring at the half-sunken vessel. "Guess what, it is."

"What did he die for? **What the hell** **did he die for?**"

Silence was all that answered Zoey's anguished cry.

The three sat on the bank for hours, staring hollowly at the ship as the sun began to sink into the horizon. None of them knew exactly how long they had been there, but it was Louis who finally broke the silence.

"We'll be fine…we just to find another boat is all."

His two companions remained unmoving.

"Guys, come on…it's getting dark. We should get moving if we want to find a place to hole up for the night."

Francis grunted and rose to his feet, leaning down to pull Zoey up as well. The brunette shoved the biker away as she jumped up, trudging past them both while avoiding eye contact.

"Zoey!"

When the young woman ignored the biker's call, Francis snarled and chased after her, followed closely by a limping Louis. It didn't take long for the larger survivor catch up to Zoey, briefly stopping her by gripping her arm. The brunette wrenched her arm free with a screech and broke into a full sprint up the hill and back onto the street. Francis cursed and continued his pursuit.

The chase didn't last long…it didn't need to.

Zoey had stopped her flight by the nearest generator, staring into the dim turbine room before her. Francis paused beside the younger survivor, glancing uncertainly between her and the barely visible corpse slumped against the machinery. Louis arrived a minute later, leaning against the dying generator as pain flooded his leg.

"What are we going to do now?" Louis murmured, more too himself than anything, as he stared at the battered corpse of Bill Overbeck.

Zoey's eyes remained hollow as they took in every detail of their fallen comrade. He looked so…_fragile_, nothing like the unstoppable Green Beret they had known.

"What _can_ we do?"

Francis was silent as he moved to the hunched over body, whispering something that the cadaver could not hear before removing Bill's dog tags. The tattooed survivor kept his back to the others as he fiddled with the tags and something in his pack. With a grunt of satisfaction, the biker stood, holding in his hand the three dog tags on three separate chains. Francis eyed the three inscriptions briefly before placing one into his other hand. Stepping up to his companions, he placed the other tags in their hands, his eyes hardened by grief.

"We'll do what we do best: Survive."

Louis peered down at the tag in his hand, reading the impressions on the metal surface. He didn't know too much about the military, but he _did_ know that soldiers were given only two identical dog tags. The one in his hand had the usual: Bill's name, blood type, social security number, and religion. Glancing up, he figured that Francis' said the same thing.

So what exactly did Zoey's tag say?

Francis cleared his throat. "Wasn't a secret that you were the favorite…he'd most likely want you to have that one."

Opening her hands, Zoey felt fresh tears well up in her eyes as she gazed at the inscription in her palm:

"_The struggle to survive is surpassed only by the struggle to live."_

**

* * *

**

-(,,,,,/-\-((o.O))-/-\,,,,,)-

**Up Next: Zombie Rhetoric**

**Making their way into the Tallahassee area, the survivors stumble upon a new Infected, uncover a chilling video, and discover why sailing to an island may not be the best option.**

**Project Theme:**

"**Ugly" – The Exies**

**(Really…every time I picture scenes from this project, they always fit so well with this song, and it fits if you take a second look at the lyrics.)**

**A/N: Here you have it, basically the gist of what I was going to put in the second half of 'The River Styx.' This chapter took me three days to write…and I'm sure it'll take more than three to fix it (I say this only because this is the fastest update I have ever done). In regards to the chapter itself…I absolutely **_**hated**_** how the Fairfield Survivors didn't really seem all that sad about Bill's death when the Savannah Group runs into them. They seemed bummed out, but not really all that sad. As such, I decided to adjust it to a more realistic approach in my eyes. **

**For those who aren't big fans of the tragic stuff…take heart. Bill's mourning subsides as the chapters progress, so Zoey won't be balling her eyes out by the tenth chapter. His memory will make a few cameo appearances, but nothing more. That's not to say that I'll just be tossing Bill to the side, the times that he does appear will be worthy.**

**Lastly, in regards for any confusion on how the prologue ties in with the story itself. As I stated earlier, I like to set the mood. The prologue's purpose was more of a stage-setter for the first L4D, then you all know what happens in the game itself, and finally we have 'Red Tide,' which takes place after the first game and inside the second.**

**As always, reviews and feedback are appreciated.**

**- C.C.**


	3. Zombie Rhetoric

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Left 4 Dead franchise, Valve does.**

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* * *

**

Deciding to interact more with my reviewers for this project, and I want to toss out thanks to all of you who added 'Red' to your Favorites/Alerts.

**Patrick the PROTOTYPE: Thanks for the review once again, my good chum. You may be a little disappointed in regards to quarantines, since the prologue was merely a mood-setter. However, there will be moments of how the infection impacts the uninfected on a psychological level.**

**Emmaleigh: Thank you, thank you…the chapter has done its job then.**

**Illusion of the Mirror: A double review! You humble me. There won't be any real two-sided romance in the story (aside from maybe some brief, comical one-sided moments). I chose Zoey and Francis as the main characters because out of all of the survivors, the story revolves around them the most (I've got nothing against Louis…in fact, out of all of them, Louis and I are the most alike). There will be some moments that could "hint" at it…but it's all open to interpretation. **

**Felt I should also add an explanation to the story's rating: Rated 'M' for language and gore. To be honest, I don't think I could write a sex scene to save my life.**

* * *

The Red Tide

By: Confused Confusion

-(,,,,,/-\-((o.O))-/-\,,,,,)-

Chapter 2: Zombie Rhetoric

* * *

"_The number one virus caused by procreation…it's evolution, just evolution."_

"_Evolution" – Korn_

* * *

"Estimated time?" A stringent-looking man demanded as he stepped into the command center.

A blonde-haired soldier stationed at the nearest monitor glanced over her shoulder. "The _USS Ronald Reagan_ should be within range in five hours."

General Travis Ryke nodded in terse satisfaction. "Any activity in the target zone?"

A soldier on the far end on the monitors stood. "Nothing outside the usual, sir, but…"

Ryke glanced at the man. "Spit it out!"

The officer stood in attention, a nervous sweat dotting his brow. "The last batch of drones that we sent out picked up what we're assuming are survivors."

The general frowned. "Number?"

"Only three, sir."

"Tch, continue with the operation…three lives are nothing compared to what's already been lost."

"Yes, sir!"

"Does the _Reagan_ have its orders?" Ryke inquired to his nearest subordinate.

"They do now, sir. The operation will commence as soon as it's reached the designated coordinates."

"Very good, you're all relieved of your shift then."

"But…the next group isn't even here yet…"

Ryke shot the younger man a look that sent shivers down his spine. "_I_ will remain and watch over this place until the next shift arrives."

The room gave a salute before filing out of the room.

"Private Lovecraft."

The blonde-haired woman stopped, turning on her heel in attention as the room finally emptied. "Sir?"

Ryke glimpsed at the door briefly, looking as if he expected someone to come barging in at that very moment. "Private, you are hereby given a special assignment of the highest matter."

Rachel Lovecraft opened her mouth as if to speak.

"You will remain quiet, _private_." Ryke growled out.

The soldier nodded quickly.

"Now, you will not speak a word of this to _anyone_. Starting at 0100 tomorrow, you are hereby reassigned under Lt. Cross' unit. While under his command you will do _nothing_ to draw attention to yourself and you _will_ report all activities that his men undergo. Is that clear?"

Lovecraft nodded, feeling a foreboding sensation build within her stomach. "Understood, sir…but…doesn't Cross pretty much work for _him_?"

Ryke's body went rigid. "I'm going to be blunt with you, private…I don't trust that lunatic that CEDA sent us _or_ any of the men working under him, Cross included."

"With all due respect, sir…he's just a scientist…"

"A scientist who has my current _second-in-command_ hanging on his every goddamn _word_!" Ryke snapped. "I don't know how the hell he's doing it, but the man is in a position to where he could jeopardize the entire city's evacuation procedures."

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Rachel sucked in a quiet breath at her superior's nod. "The man gives me the creeps, too…but why would he do the opposite of what he's been trying to accomplish?"

Ryke stared down at the private, his jaw jutting out in an ominous fashion. "You're _dismissed_, Lovecraft. Just remember your assignment."

Rachel winced before saluting, taking her cue to leave. Ryke paced back and forth while running a hand over his wrinkling face. Minutes ticked back in edgy silence as troubled thoughts swam through the man's head.

Chaos. Chaos always spawned trouble…and the Green pandemic had produced_ a lot_ of chaos.

When the _whirring_ of the door's hydraulics broke the silence, Ryke turned around, masking his relief with irritation. "It's about time you got…here…?

Expecting to find the command center's next shift of operators, Ryke felt his mouth go dry when he discovered one man standing in the doorway. Garbed in a white lab coat, the man appeared to be in his late fifties. Grayed hair was slicked back, almost touching his shoulders and accentuated by the matching handlebar mustache that curled slightly toward his nose. A pair of thin glasses topped off the scientist's appearance, sitting in front of jade-colored eyes. Overall, he did not particularly look like a threat, the exception being the Smith & Wesson M-29 revolver strapped to his left thigh.

"Daekem…" Ryke muttered, barely keeping his snarl in check as he glared at the scientist.

Doctor Oswald Daekem: a man who _thrived_ in chaos.

"General Ryke." Daekem nodded at the soldier while strolling forward, the metal door sliding shut behind him.

"What are you doing here?" Ryke demanded, balling his hands into fists at his sides.

The scientist smirked at the flustered general before glancing at the various screens before him. Ignoring the question, Daekem sighed. "New Orleans…is there really any place safer on the coast?"

The general huffed in indignation. "Are you questioning the efforts of my men, doctor?"

Daekem waved Ryke off. "You misunderstand, general…that was meant to be a compliment to your soldiers _and_ their efforts."

"I'll ask you again since you seem to be hard of hearing. _Why are you here_?"

The scientist smiled slyly at the soldier. "Merely checking on things, that's all."

"And do they check out to your satisfaction?" Ryke ground out through gritted teeth.

Daekem stroked his mustache in thought, ignoring the general once more. "Does the _Reagan_ have its mission?"

"_Yes_."

The older man shook his head in mild disbelief. "So you're really going to do it? I didn't think you had it in you, General."

Ryke stood stiffly, glaring a hole through the side of the man's head. "The targeted area's become too compromised…we don't have a choice in the matter."

Daekem turned to the general. "One more thing before I go. A question, if you will."

"A question?" Ryke echoed with suspicion.

"Yes…for my research." The scientist nodded, a smile creeping its way across his face as the room's door slid open.

Lieutenant Ryan Cross – a somber and gruff-looking individual – entered the command center, remaining in front of the exit as the door slid back shut.

General Ryke felt dread wash over his body.

"What do you do when you see an Infected…a 'zombie?'"

Ryke glanced between the two men. "I shoot it."

Daekem's smiled broke into a full-blown grin at the obvious answer. "Well said."

The general inwardly cursed as Cross removed a pistol from his side, his hand reaching for his own firearm. With his attention focused solely on the lieutenant, Ryke was too late in noticing Daekem stepping up behind him. Pulling a syringe from his coat, the scientist stabbed it into Ryke's arm, injecting the pale-green liquid into the general's body.

Ryke hissed in pain, swinging a fist around wildly in hopes of hitting the vile scientist. Daekem casually dodged the sluggish blow, stepping back while removing the syringe in one fluid-like movement. Ryke whirled around to face the doctor, pulling the pistol from his belt with the full intent of ending the man's life…

_Bang!_

Pain erupted throughout Ryke's leg, a curtain of red briefly settling over his vision. Collapsing to his knees, the general felt the pistol slip from his hand. Blood ran freely from the wound in his calf, causing the man to bite back a scream of pain. Glancing over his shoulder, Ryke struggled to focus on his other assailant. Another thunderous shot rang out, throwing the general to his side as another bullet drilled into his other leg. In a blind, pain-induced stupor, Ryke thrashed out while struggling toward the derelict pistol on the floor.

Daekem walked around the fallen general, kicking the firearm away from the prone man while doing so.

"Don't you just love these sound-proof rooms, General?"

"Bastard! What…what the fuck did you…inject me with?"

Daekem smirked down at the injured man as Cross holstered his firearm, ignoring the general's question once more. "The 'zombie rhetoric.'"

"W…_What_?"

"You answered it yourself, General. What do you do when you see a 'zombie?' Why, shoot it of course."

Ryke's eyes widened in horror. "You…you _didn't_…"

"Such a sad day…when the general in charge succumbs to the very disease he's trying to save the people from."

"Daekem!** You monster!**"

The scientist continued to disregard the pitiful sight as he followed the lieutenant out of the room.

As the door slid shut, Daekem glanced at Cross. "Can he make it back to the door?"

The soldier glanced at his watch and shook his head. "I shot him in both of his Achilles tendons. There's no chance of him making it out of that room before passing out from blood loss."

"That was rather easy." Daekem commented idly as the pair moved quickly through the hallway. "Pity that the good general has already outlived his usefulness."

"Are you sure we shouldn't hit the alarm, sir?" Cross murmured, copper-colored eyes glancing at his superior in mild confusion.

"Far too suspicious."

The lieutenant nodded in understanding while falling in step behind the doctor.

"Besides," Daekem chuckled after a moment of silence. "The staff will find _it_ all on their own in a few minutes anyway."

* * *

Gladesdale sat in what could be considered a petrified state. With exception to the occasional columns of smoke rising from the larger city of Tallahassee in the distance, the entire town lay utterly still. The outer limits were completely devoid of activity, both human and Infected alike. Cars sat abandoned by their owners, a few doors still open from their haste. Trash was blown across the body-littered streets by the occasional breeze, and the few still-standing traffic lights were flickering a repetitive yellow.

The whole place looked _far_ too much like a graveyard…

And it was beginning to unnerve Zoey.

A calloused hand – once delicate before the world began to end – reached up to lightly grip the dog tag around Zoey's neck. It was a habit she had recently picked up, one that did not go unnoticed by her companions…or herself. The brunette was well aware of the little tick, even now as she gently ran her thumb across the indented metal, the words forever burned into her mind.

It was the last piece of Bill she had.

After every scuffle…every run-in with an Infected, Zoey would always check to make sure the tag was still there. Regardless that the former humans would never even get anywhere _near_ her, a small pale hand would always reach up and touch the glinting metal around her neck. To Zoey, the tag was worth as much as her life…maybe even _more_. She feared that if this last memento of Bill were ever lost…that she would ultimately forget him altogether. A childish fear; that much she was well aware of. The young woman knew that she would _never_ forget about Bill, but still the anxiety pushed at her mind.

Zoey had assumed that Francis would tease her about it, but the biker had been surprisingly understanding about her situation. The largest of their group had made amazing steps to mature since Bill's passing. Zoey feared that Francis' recent overhaul of himself was out of obligation rather than necessity. With Bill gone, it appeared that the biker had taken it upon himself to try and fit the role of leader. It was a foolish endeavor in Zoey's eyes, but she could – guiltily – see how Francis had gotten himself into such a predicament.

The biker was now the eldest of their group, a title that Bill had once possessed with valiant fervor. Although she hated to admit it, Zoey – and Louis as well – had looked to Francis for answers shortly after they departed from Rayford. She didn't detest it because Francis was…well, _Francis_. It was because looking back on it now, the two of them had placed an incredible amount of pressure on the biker, despite the fact that they were _all_ still grieving.

Gazing at the back of Francis's shaven head, Zoey watched as the biker trudged down the street, Louis in tow not too far behind. The brunette bit her lip gently, silently promising to stand on her own two feet from now on. Though, even with her new resolve, the nagging at the back of her mind still refused to yield as ocean-blue eyes swept across the empty buildings.

"This place is starting to bug me." Francis stated bluntly while casting suspicious looks around.

"Here, here." Zoey muttered in agreement, unconsciously edging closer to her companions.

Louis glanced at the horizon, eyeing the ever-falling sun. "I'm with ya, but we need to hurry and find a place hole up for the night."

Francis grunted, acknowledging the new goal in his own way. They had been moving south ever since Rayford. The moment they hit the Gulf Coast, they'd find a boat, stock it up, and then get the hell out. It was a simple plan from perspective…but one that required covering the rest of the Infected-riddled distance by foot. They were currently in Gladesdale, a small town a few miles west of Tallahassee. Since their experience with Newburg – and consequently, their plan to sail away from the mainland – they had been adamant in avoiding the larger cities when they could. Although they provided a higher rate of supplies – namely ammo and food – they also yielded more _Infected_ too.

And Francis _really_ didn't think a few extra bullets were worth the price of having his face humped off and his neck snapped in half by a Jockey.

"Alright, look for a place that would have a storage room." Francis ordered, although knowing it was something he didn't even need to mention to his companions.

Zoey brought the scope of the hunting rifle to her eye, looking further down the street for anything of use. Stopping, the brunette smiled and glanced at the others.

"How does a safe house sound?"

* * *

The trio stood outside of a rather dark alleyway. The setting sun had dipped low enough that it cast the narrow space in shadow, causing the miniscule amount of remaining light to splay across the house-like picture and arrow on the wall.

"So…who's going first?" Louis chuckled lightly, his Uzi clutched tightly in his hands.

Francis rolled his eyes and stepped forward. "Wuss."

The businessman glared halfheartedly at the large survivor, but fell in step behind him nevertheless. Zoey shook her head, a small smile playing at the edges of her lips as she brought up the rear. Their flashlights combated the looming darkness to some extent, providing a dim illumination in the section of town that had obviously lost power.

The alley wasn't too long, and Zoey could distinguish the glaringly obvious red metal door across the street in the distance. Trash cans and the occasional dumpster lined the walls, a few fire escapes ascending up the buildings' sides. The one thing that really stood out was the human-sized hole in the wall on their right. As they passed it, Zoey saw Louis shoot the opening a curious glance.

"Something wrong, Louis?"

Francis stopped, turning around to frown at the businessman. "What the hell are you doing?"

Louis didn't respond immediately, choosing instead to take a step toward the hole, his flashlight skimming across its edges. "I wonder what caused this."

A scarred eyebrow rose slowly. "A Tank?"

The businessman shook his head. "You'd think so at first…but if a Tank really did do this, wouldn't it be…well, _bigger_?"

Zoey blinked, assessing the opening herself. He was right; the damage was _way_ too low for a Tank to be responsible.

Francis sighed in mild irritation. "Guys, can we just _ignore_ the interesting hole in the wall? It's starting to get dark."

Louis ignored the biker's attempt to draw him from his find. Crouching down, the bald survivor surveyed the debris: various bricks, bits of plaster, and a discarded wheelchair that was mostly cast in the room's shadow.

"Louis!" Francis called out again, a hard edge to his voice that resounded with authority.

The businessman waved his hands defensively. "Alright, we're coming…jeez."

"Hey…did the wheel just move?"

Louis didn't have time to respond before two wing-like objects burst forth from the opening in the wall. They stopped on either side of the prone businessman for an eerie and dreadful moment. With a guttural screech from inside the wall, both 'wings' latched around Louis, pulling the survivor toward their shadowed origin.

Louis let loose a scream as he struggled in vain against his captor.

"Shit!" Francis cursed after overcoming his initial shock, long legs quickly covering the distance.

The businessman cried out in mild pain as something sharp hooked into the backs of his shoulders. Cracking an eye open, Louis followed the source of the winged appendages to a humanoid figure sitting in the now-upright wheelchair. His eyes practically popped out of their sockets as a fluorescent light illuminated the dim room.

Those weren't wings…they were _arms_.

"_Jesus_…what _is_ that thing?"

The Infected's head snapped up at the source of the light, milky pupils dilating in anger at Zoey and Francis. With a screech, the former human released Louis, causing the businessman to fall unceremoniously onto the ground. Scrambling to his feet, the bald survivor sprinted to his companions and whirled around to face his assailant.

"_Holy_…"

From the waist down, the Infected appeared normal enough. Its jean-clad legs were confined to the wheelchair and were slightly thinner than what was to be expected. The slight tinge of gray hinted at its infected state of being. Even its abdomen and head seemed average, the only small exception being the small, vertical line that trailed from the middle of its stomach up to its lower lip.

Unfortunately, that's where the normality ended.

Hinged at the elbow, the ulna and radius of each arm were split from one another, tearing the hands in two. Its ill-fated fingers were sharpened like small hooks, and a semi-transparent, webbed flesh connected the two halves of each arm.

"Damn…that thing's ugly." Francis muttered as he stared in bewilderment at the creature before him.

The Infected let loose another screech, more prolonged than the last. Its lower jaw split outward at the line on its chin. As both sections of the jaw swung outward, the movement began pulling at the line running down its front. The flesh of its chest opened up, revealing a gory mess of sharpened bone and blood, like a gruesome triangular maw. The gaping orifice vibrated as the screech continued, the flaps closing and opening in quick, relentless spasms.

"Fuck…is that the thing's _mouth_?" Zoey asked in disgust, her face turning a light green hue.

Her only response was a scream as the Infected launched itself from its seat, sailing toward the trio in a twitching, flailing mass.

The resulting gunfire was like a bomb going off.

The Infected's body snapped back in midair from the force of the shots. The top of its head was blown clean off – courtesy of Zoey's well-placed bullet – spraying blood and brain matter in every direction. Francis' shotgun blast ripped the former human's right arm from its socket, and Louis' stream of lead dotted the bloodied maw. The Infected landed is crumpled heap, blood spurting from its wounds before growing still.

Cautiously, the three survivors huddled around the corpse to get a better view of it.

"…_This_ is an Infected?" Louis murmured incredulously while surveying the extent of its mutation.

Zoey shook her head, still staring at the webbed arms as her hand drifting to the dog tag around her neck. "It doesn't even _look_ human.

"At least the rest of the goddamn zombies looked semi-human…but this…"

The others nodded in agreement as Francis trailed off, knowing exactly what he was talking about.

Zoey tore her eyes away from the gruesome sight, turning to face her tie-wearing companion. "How are your shoulders?"

The businessman reached over his shoulder, delicately touching the wounds with a small wince. Observing the blood on his hand, Louis shrugged. "It's not too bad; the injuries themselves should clot here in a minute or so."

Francis grunted in satisfaction. "Good…don't have the first aide for it anyway."

Louis let out a grim chuckle. "Don't remind me."

The Infected corpse suddenly twitched, causing the survivors to fire another round into its horrific body. Looking even more mangled now, the cadaver once again grew still.

"Well," Francis commented while glancing down at the mess. "It's dead _now_."

* * *

"The hell?" Francis muttered as he pulled at the handle of the red door. "It's locked."

Louis blinked. "It's occupied?"

The biker glanced over his shoulder in disbelief. "Wait…you mean there's actually _people_ in there?"

"It'd be a first for us…having to share a safe room with someone else."

Zoey felt her eyes narrow slightly. "That is _if_ they let us in."

Louis cleared his throat before knocking lightly on the steel door. "Hello? Is anyone in there?"

Silence followed the question for a moment, followed by hushed – but heated – argument from within the room.

"_Go away!_" A female voice ordered from beyond the door.

Louis was taken aback by the abrupt denial, but quickly composed himself. "Miss, please…we just need a place to stay for the night!"

"_You're infected!_"

Francis and Zoey visibly stiffened at the accusation, but their companion pressed on.

"We're not infected!"

"_Bullshit!_" A young male voice shouted. "_We saw you get attacked by that Trapper_!"

"Trapper?" Francis echoed in confusion.

Louis' eyes widened, the businessman struggling in vain for an excuse. Francis shoved him out of the way, his voice penetrating the steel door as if it weren't even there.

"We're _immune_."

Zoey felt her jaw drop in a mixture of shock and horror. Was he seriously trying to play _that_ card?

Silence.

Muffled footsteps approached the door, filling Zoey with a small sense of hope. Glancing at Louis, she could see the same look on the businessman's face. Francis remained stoic as the footsteps halted in front of the red barrier. The eye-slot slid open, revealing weathered green eyes. Their owner peered suspiciously at them before taking a step back, revealing a slightly wrinkled face.

With the movement, Francis caught sight of a handful of people huddled on the far side of the room. Coffee-brown eyes bore into pine-green.

"They're not immune…"

Louis and Zoey tensed uneasily behind Francis.

"…They're _Carriers_."

Zoey felt the ground rush out from beneath her, a cold sweat dotting her brow.

The man continued as rigidity began to envelope Francis' body. "You can tell just from the look in their eyes. If we let them in…they'll just infect us."

The biker swallowed the lump in his throat, teeth grinding together. "…we're….immune."

"Don't feed me that horseshit!" The man hollered back. "You Carriers are worse than the damn Infected themselves!"

Louis bit his lip, trembling slightly as he struggled to maintain his composure.

"At least with them, it's easy to tell…but you…you people just waltz around, spreading Green without rhyme or reason!"

"God damn it!" Francis roared while slamming his fist against the door. "We'll die out here if you don't let us in!"

The man remained silent for a moment. "…Good riddance."

Francis snarled, drawing his fist back, but the barrel of a shotgun replaced the man's face. The biker froze as the cold metal tube pressed again his forehead.

"Final warning…_leave_."

The tattooed man growled threateningly, quickly approaching the end of his rope. His hand twitched at his side, preparing to reach up and grab the offending firearm. If he could just snatch it fast enough, he could knock back the bastard with his own gun. A pale hand then gripped his shoulder tightly, forcing Francis to glance over his shoulder.

Zoey shook her head, her bangs shielding her eyes as she silently pleaded with her larger companion. The biker remained defiant for a few seconds longer, but his shoulders soon sagged in defeat, and the brunette withdrew her hand. Louis hung his head dejectedly, visibly shaken by the whole ordeal.

As the shotgun was pulled from the slot, Francis glared at its owner with every ounce of hatred he could muster. "We'll leave…but know this, asshole: Karma's a bitch…and you'll get yours soon enough."

The green-eyed man returned the glare, but it was obvious to the biker that he was shaking. Zoey and Louis fell in line behind Francis as the biker trudged past them, neither bothering to glance back at the safe house when the eye-slot slid shut.

"What now?" Louis murmured while glancing back and forth between his fellow survivors.

"I guess we'll just keep moving and try to find some place else…right, Francis?"

The biker grunted absentmindedly at Zoey's question, a gloved hand digging through his bag. Grasping a cylindrical object, Francis pulled it halfway out of his pack, revealing a bile-filled jar. He had stumbled across it the day before, knowing full well what it contained the moment he laid eyes on it. The large biohazard sticker stood out starkly against the light green liquid within. Grasping the jar tighter, Francis glanced over his shoulder at the safe house, eyes calculating.

Zoey and Louis were unaware of his actions, his large back and wide shoulders blocking their view of his hands.

He could do it…even if he couldn't see them right off the bat…he knew.

He knew that the entire area was teeming with Infected…and this little jar would have them all swarming around one spot in seconds. It would be simple…toss the bile at the door, watch as the Infected all came surging against it. Even if the door held, it would scare the crap out of those assholes. A calloused thumb dragged across the dog tag at his chest.

What would _Bill_ do, though?

The questioned nagged at his mind, enough that it ultimately had him stuffing the jar back into the confines of his pack.

"As much as those bastards deserve it," Francis muttered to himself. "They're not worth wasting it on."

* * *

The military base they now found themselves in…was…well…

It was a list of bad – but usual – signs:

Abandoned.

Barely looked like a base at all…it was more like a large collection of tents with a few humming generators.

Many of said tents were trashed, covered in blood, and torn to shreds.

Bodies littered the ground. Some were dressed in fatigues, while others were donned in civilian clothes.

Although it was something they had grown accustomed to seeing, it didn't mean they liked seeing it.

"Army's dead here too…why does that not surprise me?"

Louis cut off Francis' inevitable rant. "It looks like they were blindsided, taken completely off guard."

Zoey poked her head out of the opening of a rather large canopy tent. "Hey! You guys might wanna come check this out!"

The brunette stepped aside as her companions made their way inside, both cringing at the mangled corpse on the floor. Flies buzzed eagerly around the cadaver, further accentuating just how _disgusting_ the sight was. For the most part, the survivors had gotten used to seeing such scenes…but none of them quite matched the sheer ferocity in which this body had been assaulted.

"It's best if you just try to ignore him," Zoey spoke up from behind a desk housing a computer monitor. "_This_ is what I wanted to show you."

The three survivors huddled around the monitor, the two men surprised that it was still working as Zoey brought the screen to life. The active page on the computer was a window of various thumbnail files, each titled as 'Day' and a number. Dragging the mouse to the first file, Zoey double-clicked the one labeled 'Day 18.' The screen flickered for a moment before revealing a man in his late forties, hair a mess and stubble covering his jaw. The man adjusted the camera lens before clearing his throat.

_"Greetings…my name is Miles Anderson, Senior Researcher for CEDA. I will be making a video journal for the duration of my time in the US Army's care as my team investigates the outbreak of what we have dubbed the 'Green Flu.'_

_"It is Day 18 of the outbreak and we have been deployed here within Gladesdale, a good 200 miles outside of the infection zone. We hope to crack the mysteries of this rogue disease, and – if possible – find a vaccine or cure for it through our findings. The military presence here is comforting…yet frightening as well. The soldiers…those who aren't constantly glancing around in fear are emotionlessly sizing up anyone who so much as passes by them. They've become cold and calculating, heartless and merciless…these survivors of Pennsylvania. Enough of that though…over the next few days we shall gather what information we can on Green's development."_

The trio was quiet as the video cut off. Zoey clicked the next video, and Miles' face appeared once more, looking haggard and shell-shocked.

_"Day 19 of the infection…I must admit that my time with Green's info prior to my deployment was scarce. Looking through my colleagues' findings now, I can't help but ask…what is this thing? Its behavior is nothing like I've ever seen in a virus…or any other microbe for that matter. With the first strain it appeared as if it were some kind of science-fictionalized rabies virus…but with the second strain…_

_"These things…these 'Special Infected' that are a result from a mutation in Green's makeup, even in my wildest dreams I would've never imagined human beings transforming into such creatures. Our findings thus far have proved inconclusive, and the infection radius is spreading at an alarming rate. Rumors are flying around the base that the evacuations are the cause. The military had set up a network of CEDA-run checkpoints for survivors attempting to escape the 'Red Zone.' People are saying that it is these checkpoints that are letting Green spread like wildfire down the coast, backfiring from their original purpose in slowing down the infection rate."_

Francis glanced around as the video ended, noticing for the first time at how the interior of the tent looked like a small laboratory. A board of various maps of the country caught his attention, and the biker felt himself move away from the monitor.

"Francis?" Zoey called out, glanced at the larger survivor's retreating back.

"I'm still listening."

The brunette nodded and moved on to the next video. Miles appeared as usual, looking defeated as dread filled his eyes.

_"Day 20 of outbreak. The countries of NATO have created a dual-evacuation strategy for the east coast of the US. Survivors are being evacuated by ship from two key points: Fort Lauderdale and New Orleans. The first ships should reach their destinations by tomorrow. My team is still stuck here in Gladesdale, and the soldiers stationed here are beginning to grow weary of us. They expect a cure from us…or at the very least, results. We're not miracle workers, we can't do the impossible. Having had only a few days time here, we're here to gather information, nothing else."_

Francis' eyes focused briefly on a map of the Atlantic. The areas over Fort Lauderdale and New Orleans were heavily circled. An arrow protruded from Florida, running east across the ocean and into the UK. A similar arrow pointed south from Louisiana, stopping just above the Caribbean.

_"My supervisor for the Southeast region of the US, Doctor Daekem, has demanded that we upload a continuous updating stream of information. For ever new piece of information we acquire, it is immediately sent to every CEDA base in the world. This has been done for the sole reason that even if the research team dies…their findings will not be lost."_

_Miles ran a hand across his face, a slight tremor in his voice. _

_"We are…expendable…nothing more."_

Louis' hands balled into fists as the file ended. "That's horrible…"

Francis caught the businessman's comment, but didn't respond, coffee-brown eyes halting on a map of the Caribbean Sea. Numerous red X's were scribbled across the surface of the paper.

Cuba.

The Bahamas.

Haiti and the Dominican Republic.

Puerto Rico.

Jamaica.

The Virgin Islands.

_Everything_ that ran from Florida to South America.

_"Day 21 of Green's rise. The Atlantic and Gulf evacuation plans have…ended in disaster. Reports are coming in from Western Europe that the infection has slipped through their borders. Down south, similar reports are flying about throughout the network of islands in the Caribbean. As a result, the UN is planning to blockade North America altogether…the vote will be decided tomorrow. Despite my earlier comments of a quick-fix, I had truly hoped that we would somehow be able to crack the code behind Green…that we'd find out how it ticks. The Red Zone is right at our doorstep…less than ten miles outside Tallahassee's city limits. My team and I have received notice that we are being moved to the New Orleans base. We have only two days to gather our equipment before the entire unit is moved."_

Miles' words penetrated Francis' mind. The islands were now teeming with Infected. There…there was nowhere else to go now, their options all dried up. If they remained on the mainland, if the Infected didn't get them then the military would. If they tried to sail away, the Navy would blow them out of the water without even hesitating. The biker glanced over at his companions, seeing that the information had sunken in for them as well. Louis looked as if he were about to vomit, and Zoey had paled considerably. Nevertheless, the young woman clicked on the final video.

_"Day 22 of outbreak. I think I may have figured out what Green is, but I don't wish to immediately disclose this possibility. Such a thing…it must be proven as factual before being released. Enough of that…we have stumbled upon something rather peculiar: the cause of my hypothesis. It would appear that a third strain has emerged from the virus, producing something of a…'mythical'...Infected, if you will. Rumors of it drift through the panicked town in half-whispers. No known images of this mysterious Infected have been taken either. It is as if we are dealing with the Infected equivalent of Big Foot out here. As a scientist, I tend to brush off such tall tales…I am a man of logic after all. Still…some of these rumors have even me a little paranoid. Some claim this is an Infected capable of manipulation…able to devise…to deceive…to __**learn**__…"_

The screen went black and the unnerving new information finally set in. The question still plagued them, however.

What were they going to do now?

The monitor flicked back on, revealing a bloodied, hysterical Miles.

_"The Green Flu is tearing through the town like a wildfire! The military is currently doing its best to hold the base…but I know such efforts are done in vain. Time is short…my colleagues are all dead, so I will upload this final video to Daekem and whoever else may find it. My hypothesis…one so absurd…so fictional that I originally felt that it couldn't possibly be true…"_

_Gunfire sounded from outside the tent, causing Miles to briefly glance back at the entrance behind him. The repetitive blasts were cut short, agonized screams replaced them as the soldier outside was torn apart. The scientist turned back to the monitor, an anxious fear washing over his face. Leaning closer, he whispered into the mic while staring wildly at the tiny camera._

_"This whole outbreak…it's not some kind of disease. It's not even the extinction of the human race…"_

_Snarls and screams could be heard closing in on the researcher, rapidly moving silhouettes streaking across the thin material of the tent's walls. Miles' face broke into a grin, like a child who had successfully figured out the answer to a puzzle. _

_"…Simply put…it's…"_

_The words barely left Miles' mouth before a bloodied hand gripped the side of his face, pulling the man from his chair and out of the camera's view. Infected swarmed around the front of the desk, tearing into the prone man on the ground. Screams and howls of pain filled the speakers. The last thing to be seen was an Infected standing up from the bloodbath, a fistful of intestine in its hand. Yanking its arm back, the former human pulled the bloodied entrails from the corpse, its hand smashing into the camera lens._

As static filled the screen, Miles' final word forever etched itself into the survivors' minds.

_"…__**Evolution**__…"_

**To Be Continued…**

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-(,,,,,/-\-((o.O))-/-\,,,,,)-

**Up Next: Ten Minutes**

**With Miles' journal still playing through their heads, the survivors receive a rude heads-up from a rogue military officer. They now have a choice: escape Gladesdale or be burned with it.**

**Infected Database:**

"**The Trapper"**

**The result of the Green Flu virus mutating within an infected paraplegic. It works in a similar fashion as a trapdoor spider, waiting until its prey comes within range before snatching it up with lightning-fast speeds. Like the Witch, the Trapper detests the light and sticks to dark locations shielded from the sun. The Trapper doesn't eat its captive, the gaping maw that is its chest working more like an Iron Maiden torture device than a mouth.**

**NOTE: To the people who just don't give a crap about anything…just skip down to the Author's Note (or the Review button; cue cheesy grin).**

**Now, before advocates of the physically disabled start beating me with a hose, I wanted an Infected that remained in one area that possessed the "now you see them, now you don't" grabbing capabilities, but without some outlandish cause or back story. When looking at the second strain of Green (the Specials), it's seen that they all revolve around some physical trait or another (Boomer – Obesity, Spitter – Pregnancy, Hunter – Athleticism, etc.). **

**Personally, when the Jockey's abilities were first released, I assumed that it would be a child-Infected (seriously, the abilities and actions alone just scream 'Kid Infected!'), and I was happy. I thought that Valve actually had the balls to introduce such an element to their game, despite the heat that they would no doubt receive from certain organizations (and it would be very unrealistic if it **_**didn't**_** include Infected of all age groups). Alas, it turned out to be a balding midget instead, much to my chagrin.**

**Back on the Trapper subject, a paraplegic made the most sense, enough said. If you don't like it, then I have some possible good news for you: it'll probably be the only one in the story as I can't really find another viable situation to add more Trappers. With that said, the appearance of the Trapper was inspired by a mixture of the Reaper Vampires from 'Blade II' and the various Necromorphs from 'Dead Space.' If I had any artistic talent, I would draw a design model up for you guys to see on Deviant Art or something…but I don't, sorry.**

**-(,,,,,/-\-((o.O))-/-\,,,,,)-**

**A/N: Alrighty, with the bricks of text out of the way, we can move on to the closing Author's Note. The delay in this release was mostly due to the fact that I had roughly five different versions of the chapter. The Plot Fairy just would not stop backhanding me with her wand. Looking back at it now…this is a lot of info to cram into one chapter, especially with it being such an early chapter at that. I mean, you have a side character, the antagonists, a custom Infected, a plot-turn, and the typical crazy scientist all introduced in one chapter…**

**Eh, to hell with it.**

**To note, Gladesdale is a fictional town, much like most of the first L4D's settings. It is nestled west of Tallahassee on the east banks of the Apalachicola River along I-10.**

**P.S. I may beg and grovel to an artistic friend of mine to draw up my custom Infected for you guys. Give me your feedback on if you'd want that or would just like to stick to your imaginations.**

**As always, reviews and feedback are appreciated.**

**- C.C.**


	4. Ten Minutes

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Left 4 Dead franchise, Valve does.**

**Thanks once again to my reviewers and to all of you who added 'Red' to your Favorites/Alerts.**

**KiranS: I'll take your word for it, heh. As for the Zoey/Francis subject, the story is cannon. Francis and Zoey just undergo more character development (and gain more spotlight) than the other survivors do, indicating why I've marked them as the main characters. Fans of the pairing can call it like they see it. Overall, there won't be any mutual romance in the story (a bit of comical one-sided moments, but nothing deep) between any of the characters. **

**Too lazy to log in: They're in the 'Tallahassee' area, not Tennessee. I'm assuming it was just a mix-up while reading (guilty of it myself). I understand that there's a Tallahassee somewhere in Tennessee, but the survivors are just outside of the one in Florida. **

**Patrick the PROTOTYPE: Yeah, looking back on it now, the Trapper's debut wasn't too impressive. I'll probably add a more suitable scene for another one somewhere further along. Felt like I can do it a bit more justice.**

**BlackRaptor93: Thank you very much, and indeed is it ugly. I'm glad I was able to drum up a plausible Infected that didn't immediately anger the readers, and I'm hoping the next one works even better. **

* * *

The Red Tide

By: Confused Confusion

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Chapter 3: Ten Minutes

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**

Inspired Music: "Voodoo People (Pendulum Remix)" – The Prodigy (It just fits with the escape scene so well in my opinion.)

* * *

Private Rachel Lovecraft sat at her station with her head in her hands, contemplating her future. Twenty-four hours ago, things had been at least _relatively_ normal, given the crisis they were undergoing. In that day's time, things had taken a drastic shift. To some, it was considered a good thing, but to others – like her – the recent events had left a foreboding sensation lingering in their minds.

The previous day, not even an hour after informing Rachel of her reassignment, General Ryke was found in central command by the new operations staff...in an Infected state. The general slew four of the staff before escaping the command center. From there he attacked ten of his own soldiers and triggered quarantine procedures for the base before he was finally put down by the guards. Through the process of infection, Ryke spread the virus across nearly twenty army personnel. The infected soldiers were promptly dealt with before the quarantine was finally lifted. With exception to Ryke himself, several key officers were among the dead.

Officers that Ryke trusted deeply…

Lieutenant Cross was quick to take command of the base, strung along by Oswald Daekem like the puppet that he was. Nearly every soldier suspected of having loyalties toward the deceased Ryke were shipped to the edges of the quarantine lines scattered throughout New Orleans.

It was a shrewd and devilish move on Daekem's part, placing any potential threats within the ranks on the frontlines.

Claiming that their current location – given the _tragic_ and _accidental_ breech of infection – was too risky for the remaining researchers and scientists, Cross had ordered they be moved to a more remote location. Rachel wasn't privy on the exact details, but she _really_ didn't like where this was all going. She knew that Daekem had something to do with Ryke's demise, even if she had no proof of it. Still, it deeply unsettled her at how he would go to such extremes for his own personal agenda…whatever it may be.

Rachel ground her teeth together furiously. So much had been undone in so little time.

…The Southeast region was lost, and with it…the entire east coast.

Massaging her temples, the blonde-haired soldier let out a quiet, shaky breath.

_How could this have happened?_

Mankind had stood the test of time thus far, earning immunity after immunity at the expense of millions – billions even – of lives. There was no immunity to Green, though…and if there was no immunity, was there even any hope? Green was spreading further and further with every day that passed. Before long, the entirety of the world would be consumed by it. It was ever-present…ever-changing. For every strategy that they formed to combat the various strains of Green, two different mutations would occur that would change the game completely.

The mutations…Tallahassee…the _Reagan_…

The city and its surrounding area had become a hotbed for the infection. Viral levels had gone through the roof, a result of Green working and changing at a frightening pace. Cross had ordered that radio broadcasting was to cease for the area, and anyone caught disobeying that order would be met with swift punishment. Their drones had recorded activity of the uninfected in the area, and that activity was about to cease…

…One way or another…

…And Rachel was playing a part in it all…aiding with the murder of who knows how many people still holding out in the city.

The private shook her head desperately. She didn't join the military to end lives. Hell, she was even sure to get into communications just so she could avoid the battlefield altogether. Rachel absentmindedly nodded to the officers next to her as they left the room, ending their shift. Taking a quick look around, she felt her eyes widen.

She was alone.

Biting her lower lip, Rachel growled and threw on a headset while angrily flipping various switches. Pressing the headphones closer to her ear, the soldier cycled through various channels. This was the least she could do to atone for what was about to happen.

To hell with orders…to hell with Cross…

She could at least try to save _somebody_.

* * *

"E…Evolution…?"

Louis barely managed to utter the word through his rapidly tightening throat. "It…it _can't_ be…"

"Of course it isn't!" Francis snarled after a moment, shooting the businessman a disappointed look. "The guy was obviously off his damn rocker."

"Either way…" Zoey murmured, interrupting the two before an argument could ensue. "What are we going to do now?"

Francis ran a hand over his shaven head. "Islands are out of the question now…and we can't exactly go to the army for help."

Louis slowly began to tremble as Francis continued.

"We don't have the supplies to hold out anywhere on our own, and we can't keep running around, shooting zombies as we please…"

Silence filled the tent as the biker trailed off.

"We're screwed…"

Zoey's head snapped toward the businessman, who had sunk to the floor against the desk. Ocean-blue eyes widened in a mixture of concern and despair. If the most optimistic of them was giving up hope…

…Did they even _have_ a chance anymore?

SPAS left derelict – hanging from the strap on his shoulder – Francis stomped up to the dark-skinned survivor. With a snarl, the biker grabbed Louis by the collar, lifting the man up to eye-level.

"Say that again."

Louis stared into Francis' coffee-brown eyes hysterically. "We're screwed! Out of options! Fucked!"

Gloved hands gripped the white dress shirt tighter, tremors of a barely contained rage coursing through their veins. Zoey covered her ears and looked away, unable to bear the sight of the mess that her companion had become.

"End of the line…**we're dead!**"

Sneering in disdain, Francis shoved Louis away, the distraught man crashing into the desk as he fell.

"I'll admit that we're low on options…but we've made it this far. We can still keep going."

Zoey's head snapped up, a thought suddenly striking her. "I may have something…"

Francis regarded the young woman with a slightly relieved expression. "Like what?"

"Die?" Louis suggested with a frantic laugh.

Zoey frowned at the prone businessman. "We can search for a protected community…one not run by the military. There's bound to be some around."

"How do you know?" Francis inquired, not quite letting his hopes get _too_ high.

The brunette shrugged somewhat sheepishly. "Well…in most apocalyptic movies like our little situation here, there's always groups of people who lose faith in the government altogether. Instead of flocking to the military – which always end up being a bad idea – they form their own walled communities with their own rules."

"We're _Carriers_, Zoey!" Louis howled from his place on the ground. "To them, we're the same as the Infected!"

"_Louis_…" Francis growled, his patience with his fellow survivor quickly running out.

"And even _if_ they let us in, it's just like that asshole at the safe house said: we'll just end up infecting the place and _then_ they'll kill us!"

"Louis…that's enough…" Zoey demanded while shaking her head at the businessman.

"You've got it worse than us though!" Louis shrieked; sweat pouring from his face as he shifted a glinting eye toward the brunette. "They'll _rape_ you before they kill you!"

Francis was on top of the businessman in an instant, a knee sending all of his weight crushing into Louis' chest. The bald survivor released a choked gasp before the biker's gloved fist was sent crashing into the side of his cranium. The younger man's head bounced off of the floor once, his eyes rolling back into their sockets as he lost consciousness. Zoey covered her mouth with her hands, eyes wavering as they took in the scene before them.

The biker slowly lifted himself up, standing over the motionless businessman with a look of cold impassiveness.

"You still have a bottle of water, Zo?"

The brunette nodded her head numbly, fumbling through her bag until she found the requested item. Tossing it to Francis, her free hand clutched desperately at the dog tag around her neck.

Francis shot the young woman an appraising glance as he unscrewed the lid.

"You know he didn't mean any of it, right?"

"I know." Zoey whispered while her other hand nervously fiddling with the tag as well.

"Seriously."

"I know, Francis." The brunette snapped back out of habit, the usual sass laced into her words. "I know."

The biker nodded, finally accepting the response. Turning his attention back to the unconscious Louis, Francis tipped the bottle over, pouring its contents onto the businessman's head.

"What was wrong with him?"

Francis shrugged at Zoey's question. "I've seen a bit of it before while on the road with the fellas. Looks like heat exhaustion mixed with too much stress and a nervous break down."

"And?"

The large survivor glanced at his companion. "He overloaded his already cooked brain, basically."

A groan brought their attention to the stirring businessman, causing Francis to step aside. Sitting up, Louis gingerly clutched his head, a pained wince plastered on his face.

"Ugh...my head is killing me, and…why am I covered in water?"

Francis responded by dropping the partially-filled water and a bottle of pills in the younger man's lap.

Louis eyed the offerings. "Well…that explains the water. What happened?"

Zoey cleared her throat, gaining the businessman's attention. "You passed out from heat exhaustion and cracked your head on the desk when you fell."

Francis shot the brunette a questioning glance, but chose to keep silent nonetheless.

The bald survivor grimaced. "Ouch."

"How're you feeling now?" The brunette inquired, a spark of worry in her eyes.

"Don't really remember anything about it," Louis mumbled as he inhaled a few tablets. "But I'm starting to feel better now, thanks guys."

Zoey offered the businessman a small smile.

Francis grunted. "As soon as you're good to go, we're leaving."

Louis downed the rest of the water. "Where are we headed?"

"A place to hold out for the night," At Louis' confused stare, the biker chose to elaborate. "Small steps for now…thinking too far ahead will just get us killed right now."

The sound of static erupted throughout the tent, sending the trio into immediate 'cautious mode.' Gazing frantically around the tent for the source of the ruckus, three pairs of eyes quickly focused on the radio in a derelict corner of the canopy.

_"Hello? Is there anyone out there?"_

Louis blinked, frozen on the spot…not entirely sure if his heat-induced delusions had fully subsided.

…Could it really be?

_"Come on…please…somebody better pick up somewhere…"_

It was.

The businessman felt his legs carry him to the radio before he was even distinctly aware of it. Francs and Zoey were hot on his heels, hovering over his shoulders as Louis picked up the microphone.

Holding down the button, Louis lightly cleared his throat. "Hello?"

_"Oh, thank fucking Christ. Listen up; I don't have much time to explain. What's your name?"_

The bald survivor blinked in mild surprise at the rushed and slightly irritated female voice on the other end of the line. "Uh…Louis."

_"Alright, Louis…is there anyone else with you?"_

Louis nodded, momentarily forgetting that the woman couldn't see him. "Yeah, there're two others here with me."

There was a snort on the other end. _"I don't believe it…so it's really you guys, huh?"_

"Did I miss something?" Francis muttered quietly. "When did we become famous?"

_"At least I managed to reach you guys. Okay, my name is Rachel Lovecraft; I'm a private with the US Army…_"

The survivors visibly tensed at the woman's occupation, suspicion already creeping into their minds. Francis quickly snatched the handheld from Louis' grasp, a faint edge running with his words.

"Listen here, 'Rachel,' if you're really with the army…then how in the hell can _we_ trust _you_?"

_"Ugh, we don't have __**time**__ for this. Just hand the mic back to that Louis-guy."_

"Not until I get some damn answers…"

_"Do you want to die, jackass?"_

Francis remained silent, which Rachel seemed to take as a prompt to continue.

_"Listen, you guys are standing on the outskirts of the hot zone. Judging from the transmission number, you guys are in Anderson's camp, right?"_

Louis took back the mic. "Yeah, we're in a town called 'Gladesdale.'"

_"That's about as good as we can hope for."_

"I'm sorry, but…what the hell is going on?"

_"The entire Tallahassee area – Gladesdale included – is about to be firebombed straight to Hell."_

"What?" Louis yelped. "**Why?**"

_"Just shut the fuck up and let me explain. That entire area has become compromised. Green is mutating at a dangerously accelerated rate, causing the whole city and all of the outlying towns to become one giant-ass hotbed for the Infected. To keep Green from developing even further out of control, an aircraft carrier off the coast is about to send a bombing run to obliterate the place."_

The handheld fell from Louis' grasp, brown eyes dilated in horror as the weight of their situation fully hit him.

They were going to be burned alive…

Seizing up the discarded device, Francis shot Louis a brief glance of concern before turning his attention back on the radio.

"This is the 'jackass.' Why are you helping us?"

Zoey blinked up at the biker, slightly taken aback by the morose tone he was using as he addressed the woman on the other end of the line. Luckily, her baffled stare went unnoticed by the man in question.

_"…I just don't want to see any more people die unnecessarily."_

Francis mulled over the answer for a moment, his gaze momentarily settling on his companions. "Alright…we'll trust you on this. Any tips on escaping?"

A sigh of relief exhaled through the speaker.

_"You guys are on the very edge of it, which is a good thing considering how much time you have. You need to head west, toward the Apalachicola River. The target area cuts off there, so you just need to make it across the river and you'll be in the clear. Just find I-10 and follow it…it should take you right across the river."_

"…How much time _do_ we have?"

_"…Ten minutes."_

"Jesus…" Zoey breathed, shaking her head slowly.

Francis took the unwelcomed news in stride, barely keeping his shaky stoicism in tact.

"Got it…and thanks…"

_"Shut up and get moving, jackass!"_

The three survivors shared a look before bolting out of the tent, the radio clattering back onto the table.

"Can we make it?" Louis shouted as they sprinted through the camp, his hand trailing to his watch to activate its timer feature.

"The hell if I know!" Francis snapped back. "But we're sure as hell trying!"

"Just run!" Zoey screamed from the front of the group.

A low drone filled the desolate town as the trio weaved through the abandoned cars in the streets. It was slow at first, but gradually picked up in both pace in volume. Before long the loud, incessant noise was blaring across the entire area, washing across it like a flood.

"Raid sirens?" Francis roared in muddled agitation. You've gotta be shittin' me!"

"It's so loud!" Louis commented, struggling to pitch his voice over the siren's shriek.

As if on cue, a series of inhuman howls bellowed forth from every direction, temporarily drowning out the call of the sirens. The blood chilled in the survivors' veins, eyes darting from building to building in search of the threat. Being exposed to the horror that they had, the mind was no longer an organ that could be fully trusted. Imagination ran wild with frightening reign, conjuring illusions of skittering silhouettes across the bricked walls of buildings. Shadowy figures dashed at hungry speeds in the distance. The faint traces of light from the set sun contorted the shapes and shadows all around them, only adding to the possible would-be attackers.

The question was…

Were they merely figments of the overexposed imagination?

…Or were they the real thing?

A gunshot quickly answered the question.

The corpse of an Infected fell back, collapsing in a heap on the sidewalk. An empty shotgun shell clattered uselessly to the ground. It barely rolled to a stop before the casing was trampled upon a sea of feet. Had the sirens been silent, the low rumble could have been heard. The rumble akin to that of a stampede, a force that shook the very ground itself.

The sound of a hundred Infected charging after their prey.

"God damn! That is a **shit-load** of zombies!"

Zoey risked a glance over her shoulder at Francis' exclamation. Ocean-blue eyes practically popped out of their skull, and the brunette suddenly found it _much_ easier to run.

"It'd be one hell of a sight if it weren't for the small fact that they're trying to **kill** us!"

With a twisted curiosity, Louis couldn't help but follow his companions' actions and sneak a quick look back. The massive horde of Infected was pouring from – almost literally – every nook and cranny, amassing in the street they were currently running down. Even with the distance, the businessman could tell that something was just…_off_ about them. They were regular Infected, that much he could tell, but most – if not all – looked as if they were on the verge of mutating to the next level. Large boils and tumors dotted several appendages, and some of the former humans look as if they had been skinned alive, bare muscle and sinew standing out disgustingly. Before he could begin to fully process the abnormal appearances, his gaze was drawn to the center of the horde where several Infected were being tossed into the air like rag dolls.

When Louis spotted the massive form of a Tank muscle its way to the front of the crowd, he felt his stomach drop.

"Shit! **Tank**!"

"Oh for the love of…!" Francis bellowed, his words trailing off into various curses.

The trio rounded the street corner, the trepidation momentarily dissipating at the sight before them:

A few blocks directly ahead lay the bridge they needed to cross.

The anxiety returned in a rush as the roar of jet engines settled over the area as two of the aircrafts shot by. The survivors continued to run for the bridge, the swarms of Infected hot on their heels.

"Why aren't we burning to a crisp?" Francis shouted.

Zoey willed her legs to move faster, blindly firing a pistol into the pursuing masses of former humans. "That was just a flyby! We're dead the next time we see them!"

A scream of pain forced Zoey's head to snap to where Louis was, or rather…

…Where he should've been.

Trailing her gaze back further, the young woman gasped in horror as it fell on Louis' collapsed form. The businessman lay in the middle of the street, clutching at his bandaged leg tightly. Even from where she stood, Zoey could make out the crimson stain that was rapidly spreading over the white gauze.

"Shit!" Francis' swears forced the brunette to divert her attention to the biker, who quickly shot her a stern glare.

"I'm going back for him…keep going!"

Zoey shook her head defiantly. "I'm not leaving you guys!"

Francis had already begun sprinting toward their fallen comrade. "That's an order, Zo!"

The young woman stood her ground stubbornly, holstering both pistols and reaching for the hunting rifle on her back. Holding the scope to her eye, Zoey's scream was heard loud and clear.

"_I won't let anyone else that I care about die on my watch!_"

"Have it your way, then." Francis murmured without looking back, coffee-brown eyes focused solely on the businessman a few yards away.

Louis waved hand desperately at the approaching biker. "No! Just leave me and go! Get the hell out of here!"

The bald survivor's pleas fell on deaf ears as Francis moved past him, a gloved hand digging through his bag.

"Go play with the Tank!"

Louis was vaguely aware of the sound of glass shattering amongst the sirens, followed by the frenzied shrieks of the Infected. With a yelp of surprise, he felt himself being lifted off of the ground and thrown over Francis' shoulder.

"Hold on to that damn gun of yours. I'm not going back for it if you drop it!"

As Francis resumed his run back toward the bridge, Louis was treated with what could have very well been the greatest scene he had witnessed all day. The Tank – now covered in green bile – was futilely swatting away the masses of Infected that were surging around it. The leviathan appeared to have little trouble at first, knocking the smaller zombies away while continuing its pursuit of the survivors. However, the sheer number of the horde soon began to overwhelm its strength as the Infected literally began _jumping_ onto the Tank's back. As the bulky Infected was brought to its knees, the entirety of the horde swarmed over it, reminding Louis of a pack of piranhas attacking its prey.

Louis quickly shook his head, breaking his gaze from the disturbingly entrancing sight. Checking his watch, the businessman slapped Francis' shoulder.

"**One minute!**"

The biker snarled as they closed in on Zoey. "Go! Go! **Go!**"

They were on the bridge before they knew it, legs screaming in protest, but unable to stop for fear of the consequences.

"**Twenty seconds!**"

Louis could already spot the jets in the distance, the aircrafts situated in a uniform line as they soared over Tallahassee. The city on the horizon was eerily still for an instant…

…Until vibrant flames seemingly sprouted from nowhere, coating the buildings in smoke.

The jets roared overhead, passing the river as the firestorm rapidly consumed Gladesdale. The town erupted in a fury, basked in an intense heat…not a single block left unscathed. Nearly across the bridge, Francis and Zoey halted their flight, turning to take in the scene of destruction and death. Even through the towering inferno, they could spot the hordes of Infected scattering about, collapsing one after another as they were scorched inside and out.

"That was fucking close…" Francis muttered, trying to catch his breath.

Zoey watched in horror as one of the jets broke away from its squadron, circling around to follow the river.

"Francis…"

It was when two missiles detached from the wings that Zoey decided to scream. "Keep running!"

The projectiles ignited, rocketing forward as the pair pushed themselves across the remaining distance of the bridge. Francis barely stepped off of the bridge and onto the deserted highway when the structure shattered in a series of explosions. The shockwave of the blast knocked the survivors forward, sending them crashing onto the asphalt.

The dull roar subsided as Zoey sat up, nursing a bruised arm while she assessed her companions. Francis had shrugged off the various new scrapes and bruises that he had accumulated from the fall, the biker now making his way over to Louis. The businessman looked just as battered as them, the only difference being that his leg now looked worse than ever. The eldest of the group hauled Louis to his feet, moments before the businessman abruptly shoved him away.

Francis frowned as he observed Louis lean heavily against a nearby van. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

The younger man glared daggers at the biker, thoroughly _pissed_. "No. What the hell is wrong with **you**?"

"_Me_? What the fuck did I do?"

"Why the **fuck** did you come back for me? _Both_ of you could've died!"

A solemn expression crossed over Francis' face, the larger man remaining silent as he turned his gaze to the sight across the river. Zoey followed suit, her lips pursed tightly into a grim line. Reluctantly, Louis did likewise, taking in the scene of the burning remains of the city. The businessman clenched his fists tightly and bit the inside of his cheek when Francis finally answered after a handful of slow, agonizing seconds.

"No one else gets left behind."

**

* * *

**

-(,,,,,/-\-((o.O))-/-\,,,,,)-

**Up Next: Left Behind**

**Deciding to head to New Orleans, the survivors pass through Pensacola, unaware of the corner they're about to back themselves into. As a result, Francis must go back on his oath.**

**A/N: Bit of a slow update, I know. Classes started back up and it seems the only days I really have open to write are on the weekends (except this past week with two snow days…ah, the joy of sleeping in). I hope you all enjoyed any vacation time you received from the storm (and stayed warm as well), and for those of you in southern California or sunny-ass Florida…I hate you. I really wanted to include some kind of chase scene into this project, which led to this 'escape-before-the-city-goes-boom' scenario. If this chapter seems a little bland, I apologize. I'm not going to lie…this was a bit of a 'added for necessity' chapter. So if you have any disappointments with it, fear not…for I am almost to the good part (in terms of how excited I am to write…I really can't wait to write chapter five).**

**As always, reviews and feedback are appreciated.**

**- C.C.**


	5. Left Behind

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Left 4 Dead franchise, Valve does.**

**Thanks once again to my reviewers and to all of you who added 'Red' to your Favorites/Alerts.**

**Patrick the PROTOTYPE: Yeah, found an opening to finish it up and was afraid that if I didn't pounce on it…I'd never get around to finishing until a month later (something I'm really trying to avoid). I thank you for putting up with it, and I hope that this chapter won't feel as rushed (although I apologize in advance if it does…this is the last chapter until the fun part for me).**

**KiranS: I'm honored that this project appeals to you so much, and if you want one more affirmation just for the laughs: the Savannah Survivors will be making their appearances further down the line. As for the review count, I'm not that well-known of a writer on FF, nor do I go and put myself out there in communities or reviews (not much of a review kind of guy, and I know the quality of a story is not necessarily measured by its review count). Personally, given those factors, I'm content with the review ratio. I'm getting enough feedback that I can adjust future chapters as need be.**

**Anna-Selene-Darkness: Yay! At least it didn't turn out as total crap.**

* * *

The Red Tide

By: Confused Confusion

-(,,,,,/-\-((o.O))-/-\,,,,,)-

* * *

Chapter 4: Left Behind

_Whatever happened to 'no one gets left behind?'_

"_No One Gets Left Behind" – Five Finger Death Punch_

**

* * *

**

Mobile, Alabama

One would think that the fallen city would appear eerily still, the only movements being the shambling masses of the Infected in the streets…

…It looked more like a war zone.

Not a minute could tick by without being broken by an explosion or the sounds of frantic gunfire. Buildings lay half-razed, pillars of smoke snaking their way to the sky from all directions. Jets roared by, dropping bombs on heavily infected areas while armed helicopters ripped apart the chaotic streets with explosives and lead. The military was on its last leg of patience, and all protocol and procedure had long since been abandoned. Primary evacuations had succeeded, all VIP's in the area accounted for, which left the job of purging the potentially infected populous undone. Even with the armed forces going all out, the Infected were gradually overcoming the city's defenses.

"Hurry up!" A lithe soldier ordered as she hastily herded her unit into a small, darkened hospital.

"Sarge…" A frail-looking man – sporting a large gash underneath his ribs – moaned as he was carried inside by a large, broad-shouldered soldier.

"Easy, Hanson…just rest up for now." The sergeant soothed, offering her injured companion a comforting glance. "Mack, take him and follow Jenners…try and find whatever first aid you can."

The large grunt nodded obediently and took off after a tall, rifle-toting sniper up the stairwell.

As soon as the trio was out of earshot, Sarge turned an appraising eye on her remaining three subordinates.

Ortega: a man of Hispanic descent; he was their fleet-footed scout.

Roberts: their pale and fidgety communications expert.

Shepherd: the other female of the group; a freckled, loud-mouthed explosives expert.

Roberts was the first to break the edgy silence, a nervous stutter lacing through his words. "W-What the hell was th-that thing?"

"Not fucking normal." Ortega answered gruffly, eyes sweeping across the ruined street.

"Is _any_ of this shit normal?" Shepherd muttered disdainfully as her fingers idly drummed against the trigger-guard of her shotgun.

Roberts continued, undeterred. "It wasn't even _on_ the list of hostiles we were given!"

Outside, a few loose bricks clattered to the ground, the _**crack**_ overpowering the distant sound of gunfire and explosions. The sound caused the four to visibly tense, gazes darting around nervously.

"_It's here!_" Roberts hissed.

The twitchy man was silenced by Sarge's stern glare. Casting a flitting glance at the street, the young woman quickly motioned for her companions to fall back.

Footsteps could be heard from the sidewalk beyond the wall. They were slow, uncoordinated movements, unnatural even for the Infected. With every single footfall, several others followed in an almost obedient fashion. It reminded the sergeant of a unit following its drill instructor, albeit sloppily.

The footsteps abruptly ceased.

The soldiers froze, nervously staring around the darkened lobby, as if expecting something to leap out from its shadowy corners.

Silence persisted.

"_Go! Go! Go!_" Sarge urged quietly, giving Roberts a small shove toward the stairwell.

An agonized scream pierced through the ceiling above, the cry drifting down the open staircase.

"Move it!"

Stealth all but abandoned, the group flew up the stairs, fearing for their comrades' wellbeing. The young sergeant paused at the railing, risking a fleeting glance over her shoulder. The large entranceway remained undisturbed, the street likewise so…

…Until a head – silhouetted by the light outside – poked around the corner. The movement was mechanical, slow…but it only fueled the chill that ran down the young woman's spine. Eyes widening in absolute horror, Sarge dashed up the stairwell, hoping…_praying_ that what she had witnessed was an illusion.

Following the pained shouts, the nimble soldier burst onto the third floor, sprinting through the pitch-black hallways. In her rush, she failed to notice a blood-splattered sign hanging from the intersection.

'_Rehabilitation Ward_'

All Sarge's years of training didn't quite prepare her for the scene she stumbled upon. Like a deer caught in headlights, the commanding officer could only stare, mouth agape at the sight. Shepherd and Ortega were aiming their firearms at the various doors that lined the walls, while the rest were huddled together on the floor. As a wave of nausea flooded her systems, Sarge brought a shaking hand to her mouth and diverted her eyes away.

On the floor, in the center of the crouched group, lay Mack. The large man sputtered and groaned as he futilely gripped the bloody stump he once called his left arm. A thick, blotched trail of blood ran across the tiled floor, starting at Mack's gnarled nub and ending within a shadowed room directly on his left. Jenners looked absolutely spooked, as if his mind hadn't quite gasped whatever it was that happened to his larger comrade.

"Where's Hanson?" Sarge demanded after composing herself.

The group was silent, with exception to Mack's sounds of pain.

"Jenners!"

The sniper – who had been frantically staring from room to room – snapped to attention, sweat pouring from his brow.

"I…I'm not sure, sir. I took point while we were searching for first aid, and…"

The sergeant frowned darkly as the lanky man trailed off. "What **happened**?"

Jenners seemed to regain himself briefly. "We turned down here, came down a ways…then suddenly Mack screamed. By…by the time I turned around, he was already lying on the floor and Hanson was…well, just _gone_."

"Gone?"

The sniper nodded his head numbly, unable to muster up a better explanation. Sarge growled and moved over to where Mack was sprawled across the floor. Roberts remained hunched over the larger man, doing his best to stop the bleeding. Leaning over the injured soldier, the sergeant's face took a softer tone.

"How're you holding up, Mack?"

The burly male winced and flashed his commanding officer a cheeky – but pained – grin. "Been better, boss."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

Mack sucked in a deep breath. "It all happened…so fast."

The prone man let out a cough. "I was dragging him along when out of nowhere…this blur shot out on my left."

Sarge unconsciously tilted her head toward the nearest room, where the blood trail disappeared to.

"Hanson was gone by the time I managed to turn…my arm with him."

As the large soldier sputtered, Sarge placed a comforting hand on his chest. "You did what you could, just take it easy."

The young woman nodded toward the doorway, and Ortega and Shepherd moved to either side of it, sights trained on the shrouded room. Jenners pulled back toward the opposite wall, rifle at the ready.

"Hope the son of a bitch likes hot lead." Shepherd snarled with earnest.

Ortega turned his head to reply…

…But was cut off by Jenners' scream.

The group whirled around in time to see the sniper's rifle clatter to the floor, behind it: a fresh smear of blood marred the white tiles, expanding into another pitch-black room.

"Jenners!"

The shout barely left Sarge's lips before the remaining members of her unit began firing into the far room. Primal screeches of anguish roared out from the room, barely overpowering the echoing blasts from the gunshots. Behind the group, something stirred within the room where Hanson vanished to. A shadowed silhouette hunched forward, something large detaching itself from its shape. The released figure rolled lifeless to the doorway, a shredded and bloodied arm now visible in the better-lit hallway. Roberts caught the movement from the corner of his eye, the communications expert doing a confused one-eighty.

His confusion quickly shifted to aghast as the mangled body of Hanson came into view.

"Hanson!" The fidgety soldier called out while hurriedly shuffling toward the supposed corpse.

The declaration caught Sarge's attention, who whirled around quickly to shoot the motionless body a calculating stare.

Roberts fussed over his companion for a moment, the gunfire in the background gradually letting up. Flashing his commander an astonished smile, Roberts exhaled the breath he had been holding. "He's still alive!"

Sarge closed her eyes briefly, sighing in relief at the news. A roar of agony erupted from Roberts, and the sergeant was only able to catch a glimpse of two wide, webbed appendages hooked around her subordinate. With a speed her eyes could barely register, Sarge watched as Roberts was pulled into the darkened room that Hanson had only disappeared into minutes prior. Ortega cursed and rushed toward the doorway, Sarge hot on his heels as the pair fired into the dim room. Meanwhile, Shepherd began dragging Hanson's lifeless body toward Mack.

She was oblivious when Hanson's arm twitched.

Like a coiled snake Hanson lashed out, grabbed Shepherd by her Kevlar, and pulled her to the floor. The fiery woman let out a surprised squawk as she crashed onto the tiles, her shotgun falling from her reach. Hanson dove on top of her, milky eyes glaring furiously at the prone female before them. Shepherd vainly tried to flip her former comrade off of her, and was rewarded by two bloodied hands gripping her head. The infected Hanson yanked the woman's head up before slamming into the unforgiving tile. Shepherd felt her vision flash white as pain shot through her cranium. The fallen woman's struggles ceased, and Hanson went on the offensive.

Clenched fists rained down on Shepherd's face and head with reckless abandon. Every strike brought more blood, more bruising, and more broken bone. After a few moments under the assault, the young woman's skull finally caved in, but still Hanson did not cease.

Drawn to the commotion behind them, Sarge and Ortega spun around to find Hanson's back, their companion straddling a now-motionless Shepherd.

Sarge was the first to find her voice. "Hanson!"

The former human in question seemed to acknowledge his name, as the Infected momentarily paused its actions to turn and face his commanding officer.

Sarge felt her eyes widen in horror. Hanson's fists were covered in blood and brain-matter, bits of skull fragments standing out amongst the gore. Milky eyes bore through her as she weren't even there. Below him lay Shepherd, the remains of her cranium collapsed and no longer recognizable.

As the sergeant stood rooted, unable to move, Ortega lunged forward. Gripping Hanson's arm, the Hispanic man attempted to pull the Infected from his comrade's body. Hanson's attention snapped to him, the soldier briefly taken aback by the milky hue over the once fidgety soldier's eyes. Hanson snarled and shoved Ortega away, sending the tanned soldier tumbling toward another room. The former human leapt to its feet, prepared to bear down on the prone man before it.

"Hanson!"

Again the Infected responded, whirling around only to be met by a bullet to the head. Blood poured from the fresh wound as Hanson once more collapsed to the floor in a heap. Sarge let out a shaky breath while lowering her pistol, staring sadly at the corpses of her subordinates.

"Nice one, Sarge." Ortega muttered weakly while pulling himself to his feet.

The commanding officer turned her attention to the only able-bodied soldier she had left, but felt her blood run cold.

"Ortega! Get away from the door!"

She had only managed to shout out his name when the gray blur sprung forth from its darkened home. The young woman could only watch on helplessly as Ortega was pulled from her sight, a ribbon of blood following the movement. The struggling soldier managed a pained cry that was abruptly cut off, signaling the man's demise.

'_There's nothing more I can do for him. There's nothing more I can do for him.'_

Nausea and lightheadedness swept over the sergeant as she hastily repeated the mantra in her head. Blinking back tears, the young woman vainly attempted to block out the images of her fallen comrades. With a sniffle, Sarge willed away the mist in her eyesight, choosing to focus her gaze of Mack's prone form. With a quick movement, but still eyeing the nearest room with wariness, she holstered her pistol and knelt down beside the bulky soldier. Mack groaned, fading in and out of consciousness, as Sarge hooked his arm around her shoulders, slowly, but surely, easing him up into a semi-standing position.

Behind them, the low and eerie creak of a door echoed down the hallway.

Sarge felt her heart stop dead, eyes dilating as far as they could in absolute terror.

'_No, no, no…it can't be…'_

The sounds of familiar shuffling could be heard, growing ever closer.

'_Dear God…no!'_

The young woman let out a shaky exhale and started to drag her only remaining subordinate as fast as she could, stealing occasional glances of worry at the passing rooms. Sticking to the middle of the hallway, she could see them now…the Trappers. Their barely visible silhouettes stood out on the darkness of the small compartments, at least one per room. They hissed and screeched at her, angered that she was out of reach. Her unit had been given an extremely short briefing on them, and from the looks of it…_too_ short. The Trapper, at the very least, was on the list on Infected…something she couldn't say for the _thing_ she knew was stalking her.

Ignoring the stationary Infected as best she could, Sarge continued on, whispering small words of encouragement to the larger man at her side. It was through some odd force that compelled her to throw a quick glance over her shoulder.

It was an ill-fated gesture…

As her eyes swept over the gory scene behind her, a head – the very _same_ head she had witnessed downstairs – peeked around the corner of the hall, milky eyes staring _straight_ at her.

"_It's_ here!" Sarge whispered furiously, echoing Roberts' earlier words.

"Boss." Mack grumbled weakly, tilting his head a fraction toward the lithe woman underneath him. "Just leave me."

"Shut it, soldier…I'm not going to sit by and leave anyone else behind."

Mack's response came in the form of a harsh shove forward, the large man collapsing as all strength left his legs.

Sarge stumbled, but quickly recomposed herself and spun on her heel. "Mack!"

The larger soldier glared up at her. "Go! At least…one of us…can make it!"

Staring at the tiled floor fiercely, the young woman numbly complied with a nod of her head. After hearing the vindication and resolve in Mack's voice, she knew – even if she wanted to ignore it – that going back for him would be an insult to the man's pride. With _it_ looming ever closer to the prone man, Sarge whirled around and took off toward the T-shaped intersection up ahead. Glimpsing at the left route, the sergeant came face-to-face with a barricade of debris where the ceiling had collapsed. With no other alternative, she split right.

The new hallway was desolate, save for a lone fire door at the end of the corridor. Sprinting to the exit, Sarge felt a clammy sensation creep up her arms when the door refused to open. With a grunt, the young woman pushed harder against the bar, but to no avail. Taking a step back, she kicked at the door with as much force as her frantic and distressed body could muster. Still the door refused to yield. All but ripping her pistol from its holster, Sarge shot at where the deadlatch would be. With a short scream, she slammed her shoulder into the wooden structure.

The door did not budge.

Heaving, Sarge peered through the tiny glass window…

Only to find a large gurney lying on its side, wedged tightly between the door and the wall, blockading the exit completely.

The young woman emitted a cry of defeat, facing away from what was once her exit to freedom. Sliding down the wooden surface into a sitting position, Sarge let the pistol clatter uselessly to the floor. Her hollow gaze drifted to the corner, waiting for _it_ to appear and finish her off. _It_ had engaged them earlier in the city…back when her unit consisted of ten members. From the moment they made contact, _it_ had used methods and tactics far beyond what they had even considered _possible_ for an Infected. _It_ had pushed them back here with Hanson's injury, and had apparently pursued to finish the job.

Seconds ticked by in silence.

Sarge frowned in mild confusion…_it_ should have already found her by now. All thought process ceased and her body went rigid as a large figure flopped around the corner, leaning heavily on the wall.

"Mack!" Sarge hissed as she jumped to her feet, crossing the distance as fast as her feet could carry her.

The man didn't acknowledge her, instead slumping even further against the wall, his head dipped low.

The sergeant gripped Mack's vest desperately. "Mack! Are you alright? Where did _it_ go?"

Mack inclined his head…

Revealing twin orbs of a deathly hue.

A white-hot pain shot through Sarge's abdomen before her brain could fully process what her eyes had seen. Glancing down, copper-eyes blinked as a large crimson stain spread around a vicious tear along her stomach. Feeling left her legs quickly, replacing it with a distinct rubbery sensation. As the first strands of her intestine fell from the wound, Sarge stared back into Mack's milky eyes, the former human tilting his head in an almost quizzical manner.

"Mack?"

Darkness swept over her vision. She couldn't even hear herself as she uttered the man's name one final time. Her grip on Mack's vest slackened, and she felt herself fall backwards onto the floor, a chilling cold flooding her nerves.

Sarge's eyes lost all life as the pool of blood encompassed her frame. Above her, Mack tilted his head the other way.

Behind the former human, a bloodied claw of elongated fingers withdrew from sight.

**

* * *

**

Outskirts of Pensacola, Florida

"Say it." Zoey ordered smugly while throwing down a handful of cards, revealing a royal flush.

Francis growled, glaring at the brunette across the compartment of the minivan. Glancing to his left, the biker caught Louis' amused expression from the rearview mirror. Sending their 'driver' an even bigger glare, Francis heaved a long, hard sigh through gritted teeth.

"I'm your bitch."

Louis howled from the driver's seat, no longer able to contain himself. Francis' glare intensified, hoping to burn a hole through the younger man via his reflection.

Across the compartment, Zoey grinned triumphantly. "Music to my ears, Francis…say it again."

"**Hell. No.**" The biker ground out dangerously.

"Do it, I want to hear it again." Louis cackled from the front.

Zoey's grin broadened, a touch cheeky now as Francis redirected his ire at the businessman. With their narrow escape from Gladesdale hours behind them, the tension that had been painfully apparent between the two men had all but vanished. After a brief debate – mainly Francis grumbling about how _little_ gas the various cars on the highway still contained – he had eventually settled on their current vehicle of choice, hotwiring the minivan in a matter of minutes. Despite their previous dire predicament, Zoey felt at ease…well, as close to at ease as she could be.

Hours ago, they had no future. They had no place to go, no plan, and no alternatives except for death. Offshore islands were no longer options, given Miles' report on the evacuations gone awry. The military would shoot them on sight…or wait until they knew what the small group of survivors was. Wandering off into the wilderness and holding out sounded enticing at first, but Bill had shot down that idea when he was still alive. They lacked the firepower and the general supplies to hold out anywhere on their own.

Louis had put forth the notion of New Orleans. According to Coach and his group, it was the only place in the region still standing against Green. It was a slim chance that they would make any headway…but it was better than sitting around waiting for the Infected to finish them off.

Louis stole a quick glimpse at his watch. "Time's up."

Francis – who had ceased his ranting – glanced up from where Zoey was in the midst of dealing a new hand. "Alright, find a safe spot to pull over so I don't get mauled while we're doing our 'Chinese fire drill' thing."

Zoey made a quiet clucking sound, a smirk growing on her face.

The tattooed survivor glared at the young woman indignantly. "Can it, short stack."

"Admit it, you're just afraid of what I'll make you say next when you lose again."

Francis waved the brunette off as Louis pulled onto the road's shoulder. Shotgun in hand, the biker allowed his gaze to sweep over the desolate highway. They were making good time, to be honest. Although the long expanse of road was littered with abandoned cars, it was surprisingly devoid of Infected…not that he was complaining. Upon hearing the passenger door slide shut, Francis plopped down into the driver's seat.

"You're supposed to use your blinker." Louis idly commented as the van pulled back onto the highway.

Francis frowned through the rearview mirror. "No backseat driving."

"Or what?"

The biker's response came in the form of his seat abruptly reclining back, hitting Louis' knees.

The businessman slapped at the headrest as feeling began to leave his lower legs. "Okay, okay…I'm sorry!"

The seat snapped back up, a smug smile tugging at Francis' lips.

Louis massaged his kneecaps tenderly, a light grimace crossing his features. "Ass."

"Bitch."

"Idiots, the both you. Now shut up because you're ruining my good mood."

Francis cocked an eyebrow at Zoey from the mirror, choosing to emit a snort rather than start a verbal argument with the young woman. Louis began removing various parts from his bag, laying them out on a mat in his lap.

"So what exactly are we going to do when we reach New Orleans?" Zoey inquired as she gathered up the playing cards.

Francis and Louis both shrugged from their respective places.

The brunette felt her jaw drop a little at the nonchalant answers. "So…we don't have a plan?"

"Nope."

"Not really."

"Our strategies are unparalleled." Zoey muttered sarcastically with a slow shake of her head.

Louis offered the young woman another shrug, much to her chagrin. "We're basically playing it by ear here, Zo. At the moment it's the only option we've got that has the possibility of a positive outcome."

Resting her chin in her hand, Zoey shot the businessman an inquisitive look. She honestly couldn't see how running straight into the gun-filled arms of the military was going to help them _now_.

The dark-skinned man regarded her from the corner of his eye. "With New Orleans, we may run into Coach and the others. Even if they don't have a way out for us, they may still have some info we could use. As for the military, if they don't shoot us on sight, then they might be able to point us in the right direction for something."

Francis snorted from the front. "I'd rather take our chances with the suited bastard's group."

Zoey nodded with a smirk. "At least we know _they're_ friendly. Alright, it's better than nothing…I guess."

"We drive to New Orleans, kick zombie-ass, find Coach, get some good news, kick more zombie-ass, and then we'll be on our merry way." Francis summed up, ticking off each point with his fingers.

"Sounds about right." Louis murmured as he carefully filled a plastic tube with yellow powder.

"Usually how we do things anyway." Zoey hummed in agreement.

If only they felt as confident with the whole idea as they sounded.

Francis suddenly squinted as something caught his eye up ahead. With a frown, the biker tried to distinguish what he saw in the distance. "City up ahead. Passing or hitting it up?"

Zoey glimpsed through their packs, a grimace donning her youthful features. "Hit it up…just stick with the outskirts though. Let's try and find a gas station and make a snack run."

"Roger…dibs on any beer." The biker grinned as he pulled onto the off-ramp.

"Done." Louis groaned while stretching.

"You're getting pretty fast at that." Zoey commented, clearly impressed.

The businessman grinned sheepishly before frowning. "Thanks…not my best work though."

Lifting the now-completed pipe bomb from his lap, Louis inspected it carefully. "I'm not a hundred percent sure on the wiring, that smoke detector I snagged in Rayford had really seen better days."

"So long as the 'explosion' part works fine and dandy, I won't give a shit." Francis shrugged.

The vehicle fell into silence as Francis navigated the ravaged streets. The stillness was almost suffocating, the tension among the survivors gradually rising for a reason that eluded them. Alarm bells started going off in their heads as hands slowly inched toward their respective firearms. There was something amiss.

Something was wrong.

"Shit!" Francis cursed loudly, breaking the silence while both feet slammed against the brake pedal.

A loud crash.

The feeling of the van lurching forward.

Darkness.

* * *

Consciousness returned to Francis in a haze.

Groaning, the biker gingerly lifted his head from the steering wheel, the ringing in his head slowly being replaced by the loud droning of the car horn.

Where the hell was the airbag?

The white material, propelled by the blast of air, snapped Francis upright in his seat. With a pained curse, the biker weakly pushed the deflating bag out of his face. Glancing through the shattered remains of the van's windshield, he spotted the source of his agony.

Outside, where the crumpled hood of the car was nearly folded in half, was the corpse of a Charger. The bulky Infected was sandwiched between the bent and warped metal, partially concealed by the small cloud of smoke rising from the engine's compartment.

Upon determining that the Charger was indeed _dead_, Francis weakly glanced over his shoulder. "Hey. You guys alright back there?"

Zoey was the first to respond, groggily unbuckling her seatbelt before glaring at him. "Your driving skills suck."

As the brunette crawled over and helped a groaning Louis sit up, Francis took the time to take in their surroundings. The van had swerved off of the road and onto a large patio area. They were obviously close to the beach, as the street was mostly lined with tourism shops selling seashells and beach equipment. The one building that seemed to catch his attention was a sporting goods store on his right.

"Louis still alive back there?"

"…You can't drive for shit, Francis."

Satisfied with the response, the biker became all too aware that the car horn was still blaring. With a growing apprehension, Francis began all but punching the steering wheel, trying desperately to silence the infernal noise. His companions, who too had taken notice of the horn, weren't helping much either.

"Francis! Shut the damn thing off!"

"That thing will bring a horde down on our asses!"

The biker whirled around on the pair, a snarl cutting into his words. "The damn thing's stuck. Get your stuff, we're getting the fuck out of here!"

Francis couldn't even finish the command before a resonance of primal howls barreled down the street.

"Oh, fuck me!" The tattooed survivor growled. "Out of the van, **now**!"

Zoey – rifle slung over her shoulder – tugged hard on the large pack that sat between the seats. The bag shifted awkwardly, resulting in the corner catching on the metal seat leg. The brunette felt a chill travel through her being as the sounds of rapid footsteps and rabid snarls drew ever closer, gradually overpowering the car horn. With a frantic yank, Zoey felt the pack pull free, and almost shouted with glee…

…Until her brain processed the sound of ripping fabric.

With growing dread, the young woman watched as the bag's contents spilled out, scattering across the van's interior. It was their main pack, the one which contained most of their food, ammunition, and general supplies…

…Without it, it was safe to say that they were screwed.

"Guys!" Zoey called out while futilely trying to scoop up as much as she could of their dispersed supplies.

"Zo! Behind you!" The brunette whirled around in time to see a crazed Infected – within arms reach – get its head blown off.

Blood splattered across her jacket and face, but it was a feeling Zoey had become all too familiar with as of late. Turning toward her savior, the youthful survivor felt her voice hitch. "Francis, the bag…it's…!"

The biker shook his head. "Kill zombies, _then_ we'll worry about the stuff!"

Nodding, Zoey pulled the rifle from her shoulder and used it as a makeshift club to bat the oncoming Infected away. As soon as they stumbled back, the brunette flipped the firearm around, placing a bullet through each of their heads. There was hardly time to celebrate for the young woman, though. The dead humans didn't even hit the ground before waves upon waves toppled over them.

The survivors were pressed against the wrecked vehicle, using it to at least funnel the Infected in _some_ way. Louis stood on her right, near the back of the van, elbowing Infected left and right while struggling to not be overwhelmed. Francis was situated on Zoey's opposite side, swatting the former humans away like flies. At the moment, they were holding.

How long would that last, however?

"This isn't going to work!" Zoey screamed as she hastily reloaded her rifle.

Louis glanced around frantically, trying to find something – _anything_ – that could help them out. After a few quick sweeps, his eyes fell on the sporting goods store on their right, more specifically: 'Beach Dune Buggy Rentals!'

A light went off in the businessman's head. "I've got an idea! Just gimme a minute!"

"Louis!" Francis roared out, stopping the younger man in his tracks.

They locked gazes briefly before the biker ultimately relented. "Alright, just pipe bomb me!"

The tattooed survivor caught the cylinder with relative ease, hooking the explosive onto his belt as an Infected scrambled over the wrecked vehicle. Snapping his shotgun upward, Francis blew a hole through the former human's chest. Ignoring the corpse as it dropped down, the large survivor fired a round into the air, roaring at the top of his lungs. The Infected that had been charging toward Louis diverted their attention to the loud biker. The businessman took his cue and sprint as fast as his injured leg could carry him, crossing the street with impressive speed.

Francis watched as the younger man disappeared into the building, uneasiness building in his gut. "Zo!"

"Yeah?" The brunette yelled out while knocking a slathering Infected away.

"Go with him!"

"**What?**"

Francis had to resist rolling his eyes at the young woman's tone. "Just do it!"

Zoey shot the biker a defiant glare. "And leave you all alone with _this_? **Hell no!**"

The larger survivor gritted his teeth as he held a female Infected at bay by the throat. "That's an order, Zoey!"

"You're not Bill!"

He could practically hear the distress and anguish in the retort. "Don't argue with me on this, Zo!"

Using the van as leverage, Zoey kicked a bloodied, armless Infected away. "The hell I'm not going to argue this! Damn it, Francis!"

The brunette paused to smash the butt of her rifle into an unlucky charging Infected's head. The former human stumbled sideways, only to snap backward with help from a magnum round, courtesy of Francis.

With the immediate threat disposed of, Zoey gave the biker a sidelong glare. "You can't keep pushing us aside while you go charging the gates of fucking Hell!"

"Just trust me!"

"How **can** I?" Zoey screamed, momentarily dropping her guard to stare furiously at the side of Francis' head. "How can _either_ of us trust you when you don't even trust _us_ anymore?"

Francis grunted and cocked his arm back, sending his elbow crushing into an Infected's face. Blood poured from a broken nose while shards of teeth spewed from its mouth as it reeled back.

"This isn't the best time for this talk!"

Zoey continued on, ignoring the biker's attempt at halting the conversation. "Trust us, Francis!"

The fist that was pulled back sprang forward, dislocating the jaw of another Infected. A gunshot rang out and the twitching heap grew still.

"I fucking do! Though if that idiot is doing what I think he's doing, then it'll go a helluva lot faster with two people!"

Francis cut the young woman off before she could curse him out.

"The horde's thinning out. When it's clear, make a dash for the store! I'll grab the bags then I'll be right behind you…_trust_ me!"

Zoey watched as the number of Infected slowly began to dwindle. Despite it all, Francis was right, although she hated how he was trying to flip her words back on her. He always did that right before doing something stupid; it was just his way getting the final word in on things. Bill had acted as a form of leash for Francis' dangerous and impulsive decisions. With the veteran gone, the biker's recklessness was free to roam unchecked, and it appeared as if he hadn't learned to control himself yet.

"Francis…"

The biker squared his shoulders and eyed the brunette with every fiber of his willpower. The gaze seemed to pierce right through her. Zoey nearly took an unconscious step back, stunned by the power behind Francis' newfound determination. With his guns blazing, defiant stature, and dog tag glinting against the midday sun…

"_Believe_ in me."

…He looked remarkably like Bill.

"…God damn it, I am **so** kicking your ass after this!"

The last Infected collapsed onto the body-littered street.

"**Go!**"

The two reacted simultaneously. Zoey pushed off from the wrecked vehicle, sprinting toward the sporting goods store. Meanwhile, Francis all but threw himself into the open passenger side door. Feeling around blindly, the tattooed survivor's hand brushed against one of their packs. With a rough pull, he yanked the container from underneath one of the seats. It was one of their personal packs, a plain and simple backpack. They were enough to carry a portion of their food, ammo, and general supplies, but not enough to last them for an extended period of time. As such, Bill had made sure they procured a large duffle bag – usually carried by Francis himself – that contained the bulk of their things.

Unfortunately, the bag that had been torn open was their duffle bag.

Risking a glance over his shoulder, Francis hastily threw the backpack on. Groping around the floor of the van, the biker grinned as he came across a half-empty box of shotgun shells. The area _looked_ clear for now…but he could _hear_ the muddled pounding of footsteps approaching. Things were going to get **very** ugly if he didn't hurry the hell up. Once his shotgun was reloaded, Francis continued to reach around the vehicle's interior for another pack.

"Come on, where are you?"

A howl.

Francis' arm immediately withdrew through the door, his free hand straying to the magnum at his thigh. The block was eerily still for the length of a heartbeat…

…And that's when all hell broke loose.

Infected poured onto the street from seemingly every angle, primitive and rabid screams emitted from the grey, bloodthirsty masses. Francis cursed loudly and ripped the pipe bomb from his belt. He needed to buy more time…just a bit longer to collect the rest of their supplies. Lighting the fuse, the biker flipped the toggle on the explosive's side. The blinking light started its repetitive routine as the shrill beeping sound filled the air.

Stretching his arm back, Francis felt a snarl build at the base of his throat.

"Choke on…"

The beeping abruptly ceased…the light flickering erratically before dying out.

_I'm not a hundred percent sure on the wiring…_

Francis felt his heart stop dead as Louis' words ran through his mind, but the feeling lasted for but a moment.

A strange sense of calm washed over the biker…a sensation that was both alien and frightening.

Infected closing in…

No distraction…

No time left…

Pipe bomb still lit, Francis moved away from the vehicle toward the street, walking at an almost _leisurely_ pace.

"_You're right…not sure why I was so worried there for a second."_

"…_I'm not an idiot, Bill."_

_The elderly man stopped and glanced over his shoulder at the biker's sitting form._

_Francis cocked his head, meeting the veteran's eye. "You have my word."_

_The unspoken promise lifted a great weight from Bill's shoulders, and the elder survivor felt his body relax for the first time in a long time._

The unspoken promise…

The biker paused in the middle of the street, sparks dancing from the burning fuse in his hand. Around him, the sea of Infected grew tightknit as it drew nearer. Francis wasn't even bothering to put up a fight anymore.

"So this is what it felt like…eh, Bill?" Francis murmured to himself, head bowed as a grim smile played across his lips.

_**Believe**__ in me._

…Zoey was going to be **pissed**.

The sound of squealing tires shook Francis from his thoughts. Even the Infected temporarily paused in their charge to stare at the source of the noise. A framed dune buggy peeled around the corner at reckless speeds, plowing through any unfortunate Infected that stood in its path. The vehicle was rapidly approaching the lone biker, picking up momentum despite the numerous obstacles.

"**Francis!**"

Zoey was leaning dangerously over the side of the vehicle, foot planted firmly on the floor while her hand clutched the casing to avoid falling off completely. Her other hand was stretched out desperately. Despite himself, Francis felt a small grin cross his features. Tossing the pipe bomb into the frenzied masses of the Infected, the biker threw a gloved hand out just as the buggy roared by. The youthful survivor caught her larger companion by the hand, a grunt of effort escaping her lips as Francis' weight settled on her shoulder.

The pain was brief, the vehicle's momentum forcing Francis' near-midair body to arc around to the back bumper. Catching the frame, the tattooed survivor felt Zoey release her grip before the pair fell unceremoniously onto the back seat.

"Shit!" Louis' voice shouted from the driver's seat. "Hold on tight!"

The buggy spun around, doing an abrupt one-eighty regardless of the tires' protests. Francis was vaguely able to gauge the scene of a wall of Infected – now behind them – before an explosion rocked the city block.

"…Works for me!" Louis laughed as the vehicle lurched forward, reacting to the bald survivor's current 'lead foot' state of mind.

The dune buggy sped through the gap in the rabid masses caused by the pipe bomb. The pair in the back finally managed to right themselves into more comfortable positions as the horde dissipated completely. Louis reduced his speed a bit, confident that the group was out of imminent danger.

Francis clapped the businessman on the shoulder. "Nice timing! Cut it a little close though, don't you think?"

The younger man frowned. "Sorry, finding enough gas was a pain in the ass."

The biker snorted in response. "Thought I was actually going to see the old man again for a second there."

Zoey stared at him with a look that was torn between mirth and fury. She was happy that the big lug was still alive and well, but she had also seen the expression on his face right before they caught up to him. She despised that look, the look of acceptance and resignation.

…The same expression that Bill had worn before he leapt off of the bridge.

"No one else gets left behind…remember?"

Francis blinked at Zoey in mild surprise. She had turned the tables by using _his_ words back on him. With a small smile, the biker shot the dog tag around his neck a fleeting glance.

The unspoken promise…

…To watch over them.

"Yeah…yeah, I remember."

**

* * *

**

-(,,,,,/-\-((o.O))-/-\,,,,,)-

**Up Next: Master of Puppets**

_**Francis turned away from the gory scene, focusing his coffee-brown eyes on the dark-skinned businessman who was cradling Zoey's bloodied form.**_

"_**How bad is she?"**_

_**The younger man ignored him, his eyes frantically darting between the long gash running along the brunette's side and the expression of agony that twisted her fair looks.**_

"_**Louis! How bad?" Francis boomed out when he received no reply, anxiety gnawing at every inch of his flesh.**_

_**Louis' head snapped up, his fearful eyes meeting Francis' with a look that sent a shiver of dread coursing through the biker. The businessman's voice was riddled with hysteria as he spilled out the words they both dreaded to hear.**_

"_**We need to find her some first aid now or…"**_

_**It took every ounce of willpower Francis had to not lift Louis by his collar and shake the life out of him. **_

"_**Or what?" The biker snarled.**_

_**The businessman's breaths were coming out in heaves, choked sounds emitting from his tightened throat. **_

"_**Louis!"**_

"…_**She'll die!"**_

**A/N: Midterms blow, enough said. The other custom Infected has been introduced, albeit mysteriously, and I am relatively pleased about how this chapter turned out compared to versions one and two. For any confusion toward the italicized conversation between Francis and Bill, please see Chapter 5 (Seeing Island to Island) of 'Ties that Bind.' Not really feeling this Author's Note…so I'm just going to cut it short.**

**NOTE: I know the first section of this chapter (Mobile) may have a few of you scratching your heads, but I swear that it DOES hold relevance...which will be explained soon.**

**As always, reviews and feedback are appreciated.**

**- C.C.**


	6. Master of Puppets

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Left 4 Dead franchise, Valve does.**

**Thanks once again to my reviewers and to all of you who added 'Red' to your Favorites/Alerts.**

**Patrick the PROTOTYPE: Yeah, I figured that there would be some head-scratching regarding that part. I wanted to set the stage with it in introducing my other custom Infected while maintaining the sense of just how fucked a group is who comes into contact with it. **

**Anna-Selene-Darkness: ****Спас****и****бо (I believe that's 'thank you' in Russian; however, I'm not a hundred percent sure…sorry if it's wrong.).**

**Natureboy3: Thank you very much.**

**Emmaleigh: Thank you! Yeah, I know the personalities are taking a bit of a change, but only because I'm trying to look at it from a semi-realistic perspective. I mean, a group consisting of an over-cheery optimist, a sardonic college dropout, and a reckless biker would be dead in a heartbeat without some form of leadership acting as a leash. With the leadership aspect gone, I'm trying ('trying' being the keyword) to mold the others to fill in the gaps that Bill left…even if that means chipping away at Francis' machismo piece by pathetic piece. **

* * *

The Red Tide

By: Confused Confusion

-(,,,,,/-\-((o.O))-/-\,,,,,)-

Chapter 5: Master of Puppets

* * *

**Suggested Music: "Shadow's Masquerade" – Shiro Sagisu (Fits perfectly for the scene where Zoey is attacked.)**

* * *

"We need to have a chat."

It was not a suggestion, not by a long shot. No, it was a **demand**, plain and simple. Zoey stared a hole through the biker sitting across from her before inclining her head toward the businessman driving the dune buggy, pointedly making sure he could feel her gaze.

"**All** of us."

Louis frowned from behind the steering wheel, but kept his focus on the stretch of highway that lay before him. Francis – meanwhile – inwardly cursed, knowing full well what was coming. The young woman's gaze shifted into a glare as it darted between the two men.

"We're not going any deeper into the cities…" Francis began, long since exhausted with the argument.

From the front, Louis was silently thankful Francis had spoken first as the brunette directed her full ire on the tattooed survivor. "We have **nothing** left, Francis!"

The biker bit back the urge to comment that it wasn't **his** fault that the majority of their supplies were still in Pensacola. Despite the growing desire to snap back at Zoey, Francis knew that mentioning the particular little detail would be crossing a line…unjustly so, too. It wasn't her fault either…it was just a giant stroke of absolutely _shitty_ luck. Even still, large cities were simply **out of the question**.

It was during their extensive train ride down to Rayford that they had made the collective decision to avoid the larger cities. Bill had made the small observation that Newburg had been considerably worse off than Fairfield or even Alleghany. With Green introduced into a tight knit population of hundreds of thousands – perhaps even millions – of people, it was bound to spread like wildfire. Unfortunately, they had halted the train once within such a large city.

Francis suppressed a shiver at the memory.

The stop had been purposeful: get out and look for any supplies nearby. A simple enough task, yet an endless current of Infected had descended upon the prone train before any of them could even take a step off. Francis and Bill were forced to disengage half of the train just to make it out, leaving the infested cars somewhere on the outskirts of the city. They had passed through a few more cities, but had refused to stop. The countless swarms of Infected sprinting after the train were evidence enough to back Bill's urging against such locales.

Francis finally met Zoey's stare, stony brown meeting ocean blue in a reprimanding frown. "We've had this discussion before, Zo…"

The brunette slammed her fist onto the cushioned seat beside her, glare intensifying. "We've come up with absolutely **nothing** lately! Face it. The outskirts are completely cleared out."

"So you're expecting us to drive straight into the heart of a city filled with thousands of zombies, stop in the middle of said city, and go browsing around for stuff?"

Livid with the mocking tone, Zoey opened her mouth to yell at the biker, but was cut off.

"Or perhaps we can ask a friendly Boomer to point us toward the nearest Pump 'N' Run."

"**Francis**."

Louis resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder, knowing full well that he would find his two companions locked in a heated glaring contest.

Francis was the first to disturb their exchange of silent irritation. "They're just too goddamn dangerous, Zo…we'll make do without."

However, the young woman would not go down quietly. "What do we have in the bag, Francis?"

The biker groaned. "Zoey…"

"**What** is in the bag?"

Francis felt his annoyance rise to new levels, and muttered through gritted teeth. "A little bit of food and some bullets."

"Any first aid?"

"_No_."

"And how many bullets, _Francis_?"

"…**Some**." The tattooed survivor growled at the derisive sweetness that was laced into his name, emphasizing the vague answer by baring his teeth.

Zoey crossed her arms over her chest in mild satisfaction. She would have felt smug at seeing the gruff man backed so tightly into a corner, but her exasperation with his stubbornness prevented the brunette from fully reveling in the moment.

"Louis."

The businessman blinked at the biker's address, craning his neck slightly to indicate his attention on the matter.

"Don't think you're getting out of this 'chat.'" Francis glowered at the young woman across from him briefly. "What's your take on this shit?"

Louis heaved a deep sigh, but kept his eyes on the road. "I remember the shit we went through in Newburg and the rest of those cities…but playing it safe won't mean shit if we end up starving to death, man."

Francis' shoulders sagged in defeat, the biker pointedly ignoring the small smirk that had reached Zoey's lips. "Fine, we'll go…"

The brunette's smirk broadened.

"…But **just** this **once**. After we restock enough crap, we're going back to avoiding them until New Orleans."

Zoey dispelled her air of superiority, her words taking a more assuring tone. "It'll be fine, Francis…you'll see."

The biker remained silent as he leaned his head back to gaze at the endless expanse above them.

_I just don't want to end up being the one who says 'I told you so.'_

* * *

**Mobile, Alabama**

"Out of gas in the middle of a zombie-infested city…the irony is killing me."

Francis glanced at the young woman beside him. "Give it a few minutes…it won't be the only thing."

Zoey shot the biker a cutting frown. "Har, har."

The larger of the pair shifted his gaze to Louis as the businessman trudged up from the abandoned buggy, strapping something to his uninjured thigh.

"…Louis…_why_ do you have a machete?"

The bald survivor grinned sheepishly while making sure the sheathed blade was secure. "Found it in the store with the buggy…figured it could come in handy."

Francis shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "Whatever floats your boat, man."

Zoey shifted slightly. "So…what now?"

The eldest of the group surveyed the area which – quite frankly – looked more like a desolate war zone than a city block. Craters of various sizes dotted the street, some even still smoldering in the aftermath of the conflict. Charred corpses surrounded the craters, their bodies blending in with the soot-covered asphalt. Jagged lines of bullet holes zigzagged around the depressions, occasional pools of blood marring the contours, coupled with the remains of a cadaver whenever the instance would occur. An overturned Humvee sat a few meters off to their right. A block away on their left was the burning wreckage of a downed helicopter. Despite the carnage, the scene was eerily tranquil.

It came to no real surprise when alarms started to sound off in Francis' head.

Something was wrong here…

"We'll search the nearby buildings…try to find some supplies we can use, _especially_ gas."

The others nodded and the group fell into routine fashion of a mundane sort of 'hide and seek.' Unfortunately, their efforts were met with fruitless results.

Again…

…And again…

…And _again_.

Stepping out of the fourth building they had practically turned upside down, Francis felt the urge to shout a long string of curses. The biker didn't dare though, for the looming threat of the Infected was always present. They were fortunate enough in that this area had apparently been cleared of the former humans, which sprouted _some_ hope that perhaps the military had actually prevailed in holding back the Green Flu to some degree.

However, if the military truly _had_ succeeded…

…Then where the hell was it _now_?

The unanswered question left an unsettling weight in Francis' stomach. With their previous situations of seemingly 'Infected-free' areas, he could always…_feel_ that they were there. Like a gazelle can sometimes sense the lurking lion, Francis just _knew_ that the vile creatures were slinking about just out of sight, constantly watching them like a predator does with its prey.

He felt no such thing here.

Normally, that would be an occasion he'd be more than happy to embrace, but this…

…This just felt _off._

There were signs of a fight, that much was obviously apparent, but there were absolutely no signs of either side. From what he could see in the distance, no particular section of the city looked less ravaged as the others, indicating that the military wasn't holding out anywhere. Nor were there any inhuman howls and screams of impending blood and death. There was nothing…as if both sides had just up and vanished.

Oh yes…there was something _seriously_ wrong here.

"Francis?"

The biker blinked and shook his head at the dark-skinned hand that was waving in front of his face. Louis retracted his hand as the larger man came to his senses, knowing without the need to look that Zoey's face mirrored his own slightly worried expression.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just spaced out for a second." Came the slightly perturbed response.

The businessman still appeared unconvinced. "You sure?"

"Fine." Francis grumbled, reverting back his crabby nature.

Zoey looked around, her gaze settling on a parking garage across the street. Jerking a thumb over her shoulder, the brunette addressed her two companions. "Try one more building before doubling back?"

Francis followed the young woman's indication to the structure, realization dawning on him.

A parking garage meant cars…

…And cars meant _gas_.

The biker nodded and cocked his head to the south, noticing a long expanse of clouds that were slowly rolling in from the gulf. Louis seemed to catch the larger man's stare, his brown eyes drifting to the sight in the distance.

"One more building sounds good…but we'll need to find shelter soon. I'm not liking the look of those clouds."

"Agreed." Francis grunted while pushing his way to the front of the group, already bee-lining toward the garage. Hopefully they could find some damn gas, get back to the buggy, and get the hell out of the inner city before a storm rolled in.

Sounded easy enough.

Unfortunately, 'easy' wasn't something that would be granted to them as they entered the tall structure.

First off, the building had either lost power or every light was broken, basking the large, open area in an unnerving darkness.

Secondly, Francis swore he heard a Witch.

"I don't know…it doesn't quite sound like a Witch to me." Zoey commented as the trio cautiously advanced through the poorly illuminated floor.

Francis frowned in the dark. "Since when has loud-as-shit crying _not_ meant a Witch?"

"Uh…guys?" Louis called out softly, the slight tremor in his voice bringing them to a halt.

The businessman raised his Uzi higher at their quizzical expressions, pointing his flashlight to the right. At the far end of the garage was a lone source of light from a fluorescent fixture mounted on the ceiling. The device was partially ripped from the frame, its bulb flickering in rapid, unpredictable ticks. That wasn't really what caught the survivors' attentions though…

…It was the seated figure within the illuminated circle.

"Told you."

Zoey ignored Francis' remark, ocean-blue eyes squinting as the young woman attempted to make out the details of the hunched figure.

The biker blinked when the brunette lifted her rifle to eye level. "Zo, we can just leave the bitch be…she's out of the way."

The lithe woman's only response was a small gasp and the scope dropping from her eye, a look of shocked revelation plastered across her face.

"That's not a Witch…it's a child!"

"_What?_"

"It's a kid, Francis." Zoey repeated, taking uncertain steps toward the illuminated corner.

"Zoey!" Francis growled, chasing after the young woman with Louis hot on his heels.

Zoey paused behind a car a safe distance from the illuminated area, gesturing toward the sobbing child with hushed whispers. "See? No claws, no blotched gray skin like the rest of the Infected…it's just a little girl who's scared and alone."

Francis had to admit, Zoey was right about all of it…the child looked exactly like that: just a child.

Nothing more, nothing less.

However, that didn't stop the unsettling weight that began to form in the pit of Francis' stomach.

"Let's just keep going." Louis suggested quietly, quickly averting his eyes from the abhorred stare that Zoey met him with.

Francis' doubts she could understand. The biker had grown increasingly more paranoid about the group's safety since Bill's passing, but Louis…

…She figured the kindhearted businessman would take _her_ side on this one.

"It's just a kid!" The brunette hissed, aghast. "You two would leave her to die…just like that?"

Her companions remained silent under her weathering glare. Louis was still avoiding eye contact, but the ashamed expression was clear as day. Francis, on the other hand, met her glare with one of his own, remaining steadfast in his opinion.

"Screw it, I'm helping her."

"Zoey…" Francis warned as the young woman stood from their hiding place. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

"It's just a _child_, Francis." Zoey reiterated for what felt like the hundredth time. "It'll be fine."

The brunette moved forward, disregarding the biker's hushed warnings aimed at her back. Carefully stepping into the lit circle, Zoey crouched down to where she was almost eye-level with the little girl. Behind her, she could hear Francis and Louis shuffle out from behind the car. With a motherly smile, Zoey leaned forward and placed her hand on the child's shoulder.

"Are you alright?"

The little girl's tears ceased, her tiny frame jerking at the contact. Emitting a few quiet sniffles and the occasional hiccup, the child slowly lifted her head from her hands.

"It's okay; we're not going to hurt you."

Zoey allowed her smile to gain confidence as the child looked her in the eye with pair of vibrant sea-green orbs. They were red, puffy, and looked incredibly lost…but they weren't the deathly hue of an Infected.

The brunette glanced over her shoulder at her comrades. "See, I told you…"

The light flickered for an instant.

When the bulb returned to life, once more illuminating the darkened area, time seemed to slow…

…And Francis felt the blood in his veins freeze.

Zoey was standing now, although her lithe frame was slowly leaning backwards. Across from her, the child remained unmoving, still staring up at the young woman with the same expression of lonely fear. The brunette held an expression of confused pain, oblivious as to what had transpired, but was beginning to feel the effects nonetheless. A long and deep cut adorned her side, faint traces of crimson already staining the edges of the tear on her jacket.

"…So?" Zoey whispered just as a quick, but long, ribbon of blood spurted from the wound.

As she fell backward, the young woman craned her neck as best she could and gave her companions a frightened and perplexed glance.

Francis moved forward, the outside world temporarily shut out as he focused on the child still sitting in the light, his boots moving in long and calculated strides. He could feel Louis right behind him as the businessman sprang forward and caught Zoey's limp body before she could hit the ground. The biker's eyes had lost all warmth, temporarily closing their owner off from even Zoey's predicament. All that mattered now was the child.

It took Francis all of three steps to reach his target, magnum already drawn from its holster. The child didn't even have time to look up before her head exploded in a shower of brain matter and gore. The casing hadn't even hit the floor when the firearm shifted up slightly, aiming at the center of two fiery orbs which sat behind the child's now headless corpse. The oddly silent Witch hiding in the darkness glared up at him, blood dripping from one of her elongated fingers. A second shot and the orbs vanished behind a curtain of gore, the scrawny corpse snapping back from the force of the blow. Lowering the magnum, Francis felt time speed back up.

The biker turned away from the gory scene, focusing his coffee-brown eyes on the dark-skinned businessman who was cradling Zoey's bloodied form.

"How bad is she?"

The younger man ignored him, his eyes frantically darting between the long gash running along the brunette's side and the expression of agony that twisted her fair looks.

"Louis! How bad?" Francis boomed out when he received no reply, anxiety gnawing at every inch of his flesh.

Louis' head snapped up, his fearful eyes meeting Francis' with a look that sent a shiver of dread coursing through the biker. The businessman's voice was riddled with hysteria as he spilled out the words they both dreaded to hear.

"We need to find her some first aid now or…"

It took every ounce of willpower Francis had to not lift Louis by his collar and shake the life out of him.

"Or what?" The biker snarled.

The businessman's breaths were coming out in heaves, choked sounds emitting from his tightened throat.

"Louis!"

"…**She'll die!**"

Louis' cry of anguish temporarily knocked the wind from the biker's lungs. Sure, it wasn't the first time one of them had been injured…but they had had first aid on hand then.

Now, though…they had nothing.

Holstering his sidearm, Francis knelt down and hoisted Zoey's limp body into his arms as Louis hastily snatched up the young woman's discarded rifle.

The businessman was still panicky as he started for the garage's exit. "I saw a small hospital not too far from here, come on!"

Once he was sure Zoey was secure, the biker started after his younger companion, risking a fleeting glance over his shoulder at the two corpses they left behind.

It had been a trap…

…The Infected had somehow set a _fucking_ trap.

As the two survivors dashed from the building, the light began to flicker erratically. The bodies of the Witch and child began to twitch. The spasms ceased abruptly as something slithering away from the cadavers and into the darkness, joining five silhouetted figures shuffling through the gloom of the parking garage.

The fluorescent light gave a dying _pop_ as the bulb went out.

* * *

Louis burst through a patient room door of the ER in a frantic huff. Looking around, the businessman quickly motioned out in the hall. Not even a moment later, Francis – still cradling Zoey's lifeless form – pushed himself into the room, kicking the door shut.

"Set her on the table!" Louis commanded as he began ripping open various cabinets that lined the wall.

The biker obediently complied, gingerly laying the brunette on the examination table in the center of the room. When he pulled his arms back, Francis had to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat.

His right arm – which had been hooked around Zoey's midsection – was completely covered in blood. Glancing down, he found a sizeable crimson stain soaking into his vest and singlet.

Louis quickly returned from his search with a small metal cart laden with random medical supplies.

"Get her jacket off!"

Once again, Francis obeyed, shucking off the aforementioned article of clothing without a word of protest. Tossing the jacket onto a nearby countertop, the biker turned and leaned over Louis' shoulder as the businessman hiked up Zoey's bloodied shirt to gain better access to the grievous wound which was already staining the table in a sickening crimson hue. The movement had jarred the dog tag loose from its usual place underneath the simple white garment. The metal glinted against the fluorescent lighting, splatters of blood marring the inscribed words.

_Jesus_, there was so much blood.

Francis noticed with growing concern that the young woman's skin had taken a paler tint as Louis wheeled his cart around, assorting the supplies as fast as his trembling hands could. The businessman suddenly ceased his actions, standing still with the occasional fidget for reasons that both eluded and angered the tattooed survivor.

"What the fuck are you doing, Louis? Come on!" Francis didn't need to be told that all traces of sarcasm and foolhardiness had long since left his voice, replaced by a rapidly growing panic.

Louis whirled around, his eyes wild and his voice strained. "Back off, man. I…I get nervous when people hover over me like that."

If it meant saving Zoey's life, Francis was all too happy to comply, giving the businessman his space with a simple nod of his head. Louis muttered a quick 'thanks' before taking a deep breath and exhaling. Quickly and methodically, the younger man set to work on a task that had almost become routine for them in recent weeks.

The room fell into a tense silence, the only sounds being the clanging of the medical instruments and the occasional pained moan from the unconscious woman on the table.

Francis kept his distance from the concentrating businessman, preoccupying himself with the role of lookout, peeking through the small window on the door for any signs of Infected. It was better to not disturb Louis until his finished. Sure, they had all been given a crash course on stitching and bandaging with the wake of the zombie apocalypse, but Louis' medical skills were second only to Bill's. The veteran had made it _very_ clear that if you were going to travel with him, then you _would_ learn to take care of your comrades. Francis' skill was adequate at best. Enough to patch a typical wound or close the usual cut…but this…

The biker glanced down at his blood-soaked arm.

There was _no way_ he could fix this.

He couldn't fix the wound that had been inflicted in the blink of an eye…in an instant…

…He had been an instant too slow.

The minutes ticked by in edgy silence before Louis stepped back with a relieved sigh.

"Is she okay?"

The businessman offered his larger companion a shaky smile. "She'll live, but it was a close call…too close. Had we been even a minute later…"

Francis nodded dazedly as Louis trailed off, unable to finish the morbid hypothetical. With a small shudder, the bald survivor plucked a roll of gauze from his cart and motioned the biker over. Hooking his hands underneath Zoey's arms, Francis carefully sat her up while Louis rolled the cloth against the stitched-up wound. Her breathing was shallower than he remembered, and he could have sworn her skin had paled even more since the last time he checked. When he had finished, Louis pulled the hem of the brunette's shirt back down, Francis tentatively lowering Zoey's head onto the padded headrest.

With their task complete, Louis collapsed back, leaning heavily on the counter as his legs turned to jelly. Francis exhaled loudly, feeling like the whole ordeal had just taken ten years off his life as he propped himself against the adjacent wall.

"Man, I gotta ask…where the hell did you learn all that crap?"

Louis grinned sheepishly, allowing a still-shaking hand run over his bald cranium. "I went through a 'TV Medical Drama' phase just before all this shit happened."

Francis genuinely laughed for the first time in what felt like forever. "For once, I'm actually thankful for your terrible taste in shows."

The businessman chuckled earnestly. "So am I…so am I."

"You sure she'll be fine?"

A nod. "When she wakes up, she's going to feel weak…and we'll need to pump her full of painkillers if she's going to be moving _anywhere_ on her own. It'd be best if we clear out this place a bit more for supplies when she comes to."

Francis hummed in agreement, stealing a glance at the bandage wrapped around Louis' thigh. "How's the leg holding up?"

The businessman smiled. "Feeling much better since we re-stitched the damn thing after Gladesdale."

"Good…don't wanna be dragging around _two_ lazy asses."

Louis snorted and flipped the biker off, earning a chuckle from the larger man. The air in the room lightened as the two men attempted to take their minds off of just how close they had come to losing yet another of their group. The overpowering smell of disinfectant combated the stench of blood and for a while, their efforts were proving fruitful as they waited for Zoey to finally regain consciousness.

That was, however, until a chill unexpectedly shot up both survivors' spines. They appeared to notice it simultaneously: that something was off about the room. Two pairs of brown eyes were drawn to the closed door, more specifically: the window…

…And were met by red-speckled eyes of rage.

The survivors stood frozen, staring with a mixture of shock and growing fear at the behemoth that stood in an almost _docile_ fashion on the other side of the door.

In an instant, the gates of Hell were opened.

Without even so much as a roar, the Tank smashed through the door, its broad shoulders ripping through the doorframe with ease. Francis leapt back into the corner, pulling his shotgun free from its strap with a quick tug. Louis backed up against the counter, eyeing the massive Infected warily. The Tank glared at the two survivors carefully, quiet snorts exiting its nostrils. The beast made no immediate move to attack, choosing instead to merely stand in the wake of the destroyed opening to observe the humans in what could only be described as a _calculating_ manner.

Louis glanced from the Tank to the _very_ vulnerable Zoey who lay between them.

"Louis." Francis muttered, his coffee-brown orbs not leaving the leviathan before him.

The Tank apparently caught the noise as its gaze shifted to lock onto the tattooed biker. The larger man said no more, but Louis understood the silent order. Tensing his leg muscles, the businessman took a deep breath and waited for his signal.

"**Now!**" Francis barked while bring the SPAS up, popping off a couple of rounds into the Tank's midsection.

He didn't need to be told twice. Louis sprang forward, scooping Zoey up as gently and as quickly as he could. The bald survivor glanced over his shoulder in time to see Francis narrowly avoid a meaty arm that was sent barreling through the countertop. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the cramped space of the room was _not_ going to bode well for them. Wasting little time, Louis dashed to a small supply closet in the back of the room. The businessman gingerly set Zoey's prone form on the floor, his eyes nervously darting to the side as Francis' gunfire abruptly ceased.

"Don't worry, Zo…we'll just be a minute, I promise."

The dark-skinned man bolted from the room, shutting the door behind him. Francis was desperately trying to reload his shotgun _and _dodge the Tank's broad swings at the same time, all the while shouting insults at the bulky Infected.

"Your aim sucks more than a hooker with no teeth!"

Louis held back his bewildered laugh…leave it to Francis to lash out insults as death looked him in the eye. The Uzi wasn't in his hands for even a second before the businessman began pouring a stream of lead into the behemoth's left side. The Tank grunted and whirled around, bearing down the smaller of the two survivors. Louis leapt out of the way as the large Infected charged forward and crushed the small cart like it was an aluminum can. Another burst of machinegun fire and the Tank's arm and shoulder were dotted with bloody splotches.

"Out!"

Francis needed no further prompting.

Successive cones of lead tore through the Tank's right pectoral and neck. Taking the bait, it spun, swatting the examination table across the room. Francis squawked and ducked, barely dodging the piece of furniture as it crashed into the cabinets. The biker rolled to the side as two meaty fists cracked the tiled floor where he once stood.

The biker ducked. An arm ripped through the plaster and drywall.

Louis felt around his belt, his hand gliding over one clip.

_One._

Cursing, the businessman slid the fresh magazine in and immediately emptied half of it into the monster as it backed Francis into a corner. Taking his cue, the biker jumped out of the corner, stuffing new shells into his firearm as he went.

"I'm out!"

Francis fired a round into the Tank as it attempted to close the gap between it and Louis. "Then reload!"

"I'm **out**, out!" Louis shouted, faking right before lunging to the left, scarcely avoiding a bloodied forearm.

He heard the biker curse loudly shortly before the deafening blasts of a magnum echoed around the room. The rounds bit into the Tank's shoulder, baiting the monstrosity back toward the waiting Francis. A large fist swung out in a wide arc, taking out the entire set of cabinets in one destructive motion. Francis scurried out of the way, accidentally running into Zoey's discarded rifle.

Francis stared at the firearm…then grinned.

Louis blinked as the hunting rifle slid across the floor and into his foot. Smirking, the businessman picked up the scoped firearm and aimed at the Tank's unprotected back…

…_What the hell __**was**__ that?_

Given the Tank's erratic movements, it was difficult to tell exactly _what_ the thing was, but there was certainly something sticking out of its back.

It looked like a tendril of some sort…

"Louis! A lil help here!"

The younger survivor shook his head quickly, focusing on the task at hand.

Apparently the rifle's bullets packed a bit of a punch, as the Tank was quick to renew its interest in Louis after only three shots.

"Uh, Francis?" Louis yelled feebly, the leviathan drawing ever closer.

"**Francis!**"

A sharp whistle caused the Tank to pivot slightly, only to come face-to-face with the barrel of Francis' shotgun.

"Suck it."

Francis held down the trigger of the automatic shotgun, emptying every round, pointblank, into the Tank's face.

By the tenth round, the Infected's head had been blown clean off, spurts of blood pumping out of the opening. Pawing at the air halfheartedly, the Tank slumped on its side, dead.

The two survivors leaned heavily against the wall, panting for breath as they surveyed the obliterated room. Weakly, Francis raised his hand, curling his fingers in to form a fist. Louis grinned and shook his head, but complied anyway. The two fists bumped together, and the men shared a quiet laugh.

"Gotta say…that could've gone worse." Francis commented idly while reloading his magnum.

Louis nodded before adding, "He died like a bitch."

The biker snorted, relishing in the mirth before gesturing to the closet. "Zo still okay?"

The businessman craned his neck until he could see into the dim room, smiling in relief when he spotted the slow rise and fall of Zoey's chest.

"Yeah, still alive."

Francis leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed. "Good."

Louis felt his own eyelids close, basking in the victory of the moment. They had just _destroyed_ a Tank with only two people…in a tiny room. The fact that both of them were walking away without any injuries was nothing short of a miracle.

"Louis…you hear something?"

The businessman cracked his eyes open, about to ask what the hell Francis was talking about, when his gaze was drawn to the middle of the room and his eyes dilated in horror.

The Tank was standing up…

…The _headless_ Tank…was standing up.

"What the **fuck**?"

Francis seemed to notice the phenomenon too.

The Tank began swinging around wildly without rhyme or reason. Its meaty fists smashed through the walls, the sectioned ceiling, the lights, and pretty much everything else that sat within arms reach. The headless leviathan stumbled blindly toward the two survivors, who had to duck to avoid being crushed right there on the spot. Francis stepped left while Louis rolled right just as the bulky corpse rammed into the corner of the room.

"How the fuck is this thing still alive?" Francis boomed in disbelief, carefully edging away from the flailing creature.

The frightened – yet sarcastic – reply died in Louis' throat. Brown eyes widened in surprise before knitting together in confusion as they locked onto something…

…Something that looked oddly like a tendril lying on the ground.

Louis' gaze followed the ropelike wisp to the right, observing as it trailed through the destroyed doorway. Backtracking, the businessman followed the tendril as it ended at the Tank, appearing to be attached somehow to the Infected's spine.

A light went off in Louis' head.

"I've got an idea!"

Francis watched as his companion darted forward, unsheathing the machete at his thigh.

"What the **fuck** are you doing, Louis?" The biker roared in horrified confusion. "You're gonna die!"

"Trust me!"

_How can __**either**__ of us trust you when you don't even trust __**us**__ anymore?_

Zoey's words came flooding back like a tidal wave. She had been right…he **was** a jackass. He had been so worried about their protection that he had ended up suffocating them. The whole 'teamwork' aspect that had taken so long to build up…that had gotten them so far…he had torn it down just like _that_.

Growling, Francis relented. "Alright, fine! Hurry the hell up though!"

Gripping the blade tightly in both hands, Louis nodded before swinging down the machete as hard as he could…

…Right on the prone tendril lying on the floor.

The stem-like object partially split apart and Louis allowed himself a small moment of triumph. Glancing over at the Tank, he could see the Infected's body temporarily cease its frenzied flailing, overtaken by a bout of intense spasms. With a grin, Louis raised the blade over his head again, preparing to slash down once more…

"**Louis!**"

The businessman ducked through instinct alone. His injured leg couldn't keep up with the sharpness of the movement, and he felt the muscles give out halfway through the motion. Instead, he fell back against the wall, bearing witness to the meaty fist that had lashed out blindly, missing him by barely even an inch. With a grunt, Louis pushed off the wall, hacking at the tendril one final time as the headless Tank swung again. The ropey object separated at last, and Louis felt his eyes snap shut, expecting the Tank's impending blow.

It never came.

Cracking an eye open, Louis found the Tank lying once more on the floor, unmoving. Francis stood across the room, staring between the two of them in shock. Exhaling, the businessman slumped against the wall, feeling the machete drop from his grip. It was over…it was done. He had a feeling that the Tank was _actually_ dead this time…

…And then he caught a sliver of movement out of the corner of his eye.

The other half of the tendril was sliding out of the doorway.

Louis felt his feet give chase, ignoring Francis' confused shouts of protest. He had barely made out into the hallway when something wrapped tightly around his abdomen. Glancing down, Louis discovered the all too familiar appendage of the Smoker coiled around his midsection. The businessman was pulled off his feet before he could raise his head, his vision blurring slightly when his cranium fell against the tiled floor. With a short cry, Louis dug his heels into the floor as best he could, all while trying to prop himself back onto his feet.

The tongue gave another sharp tug, and Louis was nearly thrown off his feet once again. However, the businessman remained adamant, his brown eyes finally lifting themselves to stare down the long corridor. A chill traveled through the bald survivor as he took in the sight.

A small cluster of Infected stood near the hallway's intersection, packed tightly in way that made them appear to be herded protectively around something. The Smoker stood at the forefront, pulling for everything that it was worth. At its feet: the severed tendril retracted into the center of the Infected mass.

He wasn't quite sure to make of the scene…but he sure as hell didn't like it.

The Smoker gave another yank, causing Louis to stumble forward slightly. A large shadow darted past the businessman, and in a quick, fluid motion, the tongue was severed in half. Blood pumped from the slashed appendage as Louis hastily uncoiled the vile thing from his midsection. Glancing at his savior, it came to no real surprise when he found Francis standing tall beside him, bloody machete in hand with his magnum aimed at the group of Infected. Judging from the slightly bewildered look on the biker's face, Louis could tell Francis didn't know what to make of it either.

"Don't know what the fuck it is…but it needs to die."

With that said, Francis began firing at the Smoker. The first round hit the lanky Infected in the shoulder, causing its body to pivot from the impact. Louis' eyes widened as they caught sight of a slouching silhouette in the middle of the cluster. A bulky figure darted around from the back of the group with such speed that it could only be one thing…

…A Charger.

The heavy Infected replaced the injured Smoker at the front of the group, unflinchingly taking the magnum rounds to its chest and enlarged arm. Francis blinked when the Charger remained still. He had expected it to come barreling at them like all Chargers did, but this one stood motionless…acting more like a shield than anything else.

"What the hell is wrong with these things today?" Francis muttered while continuing his assault.

A distinct _hiss_ made itself known from directly behind the prone Charger. The Spitter used its elongated neck to peek over the Charger's shoulder long enough to unleash a glob of acid. The two survivors stepped back as the sizzling green puddle spread out across the width of the hallway. Francis cursed when his magnum clicked, hastily reloading as the cluster of Infected began moving collectively down the hall and around the corner. As the puddle lost its volatile nature, the biker stepped forward, fully prepared to give chase…

…But a hand on his shoulder held him back.

Louis shook his head slowly at the biker's questioning glance. "Forget it…we can't leave Zoey all alone."

Shoulders drooping in defeat, Francis offered a solemn nod before following his companion back into the wrecked hospital room.

"What the fuck was all that about, anyway?"

Louis regarded his fellow survivor through tired eyes. "No idea…but I _seriously_ don't like it."

_It would appear that a third strain has emerged from the virus, producing something of a…'mythical'...Infected, if you will._

The words drifted through Louis' memory, the hazy recollections of Miles' video journal slowly coming back to him. The businessman sat there for several minutes, silently wracking his brain for answers. Zoey had awoken during the middle of his recollections, offering her two companions a weak grin and a comment about how she was _never_ going to have kids after this.

Zoey graciously accepted the painkillers and water that Francis offered her from their pack, and after a brief dispute, grudgingly accepted the food too.

"Thanks." The young woman mumbled while eyeing the biker's bloodstained attire. "And sorry I ruined your vest."

Francis shrugged both the thanks and the apology off. "Don't worry about it. Enjoy the food though…"

The biker's lips pressed into a grim smile. "…That's the last of it."

_No known images of this mysterious Infected have been taken either._

That was all it took for the two to resume their bickering. "How could you waste the last of our food like that?"

Francis snorted. "Sorry for caring."

Zoey bit the inside of her cheek, looking away. "So…I guess you're going to say 'I told you so,' huh?"

Francis frowned at the young woman. "I really hoped you'd be the one saying it."

"So much for trusting us, eh?"

The biker shrugged, a thoughtful look gracing his rough features. "It wasn't the best situation we've ever had, I'll admit that. The way I see it though, we just walked away from something that should have killed all of us…I consider that a plus."

Louis' head snapped up, the pieces slowly beginning to fall into place now as he recalled more of Miles' observations.

_Some claim this is an Infected capable of manipulation…_

The headless Tank going on a blind rampage…

The protective Charger…

…_Able to devise…_

The way he was baited into the Smoker's clutches…

…_To deceive…_

The crying child and the hiding Witch in the parking garage…

…_To __**learn**__…_

"So…what exactly happened?" Zoey finally asked while gingerly bringing a hand to her injured side.

Louis felt himself answer before Francis could dive into an over-exaggerated tall tale. "…I think we found the 'Zombie Bigfoot'…"

**To Be Continued…**

* * *

**-(,,,,,/-\-((o.O))-/-\,,,,,)-**

**Up Next: ****Darwin****'s Law**

**We're in for a good ol' fashion Mexican Standoff.**

**A/N: That's right…I went there. Where exactly I went, I'm not really sure…but I went there! I'm sorry…it's four in the morning and I'm running on fumes at this point. I got slightly backtracked with deciding fall classes (sarcastic 'woo'). Wow…this chapter turned out longer than I expected (8k+ words), but I'm not complaining since this story's now my longest work posted on FF in terms of word count. Sorry if the Tank fight seems a little…awkward. It felt weird trying to write a complex fight scene involving an Infected that can only really punch things…so I simplified it a bit.**

**The music…it's all about the harpsichord. It really helps bring everything together that builds up during the parking garage scene…in my opinion at least.**

**I give you the second custom Infected…still a little mysterious and hazy, but it will be explained more in depth in the chapter after 'Hurricane Zombie.' As such, I'll wait to post the 'Infected Database' until that time so it doesn't weaken the story's explanation. **

**As always, reviews and feedback are appreciated.**

**- C.C.**


	7. Darwin's Law

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Left 4 Dead franchise, Valve does.**

**Thanks once again to my reviewers and to all of you who added 'Red' to your Favorites/Alerts.**

**Patrick the PROTOTYPE: Fuck yeah he's a mother-fucking badass! Indeed, a zombie is scary enough…but a zombie with intelligent thought would downright scare me shitless. I figured 'Hey, the odds aren't stacked **_**nearly**_** enough against the survivors…let's throw a curveball.'**

**Anna-Selene-Darkness: And you shall have it!**

**Natureboy3: Thank you. It took some effort in muddling through various over-the-top ideas and possibilities.**

**The Ninja Platypus: Thanks…and I don't really have a Beta Reader at the current moment. I've tried contacting a few…but they never seem to respond (oh god, they hate me!). If any of you are willing to, please feel free to PM me. I'm more than willing to give someone a sneak peak if they're really willing to offer suggestions and feedback before the final product goes out. **

**Emmaleigh: Indeed she is…but for how long? (And cue the suspenseful, ominous music!)**

* * *

**Chapter 6: Darwin's Law**

* * *

"_Buy on fear, sell on greed." – Alan Greenspan_

* * *

_E pluribus unum_

* * *

**Mobile, Alabama**

The hospital was eerily quiet, save for the faint, muffled rumblings of distant thunder. Inside the ER lay the motionless corpse of the headless Tank, surrounded by the remains of the destroyed room. A sliver of movement appeared at the edge of the half-razed doorway, breaking the air's forlorn stillness. A Spitter's face peaked around the corner almost cautiously, beady eyes scanning the room for signs of life.

Finding none, the pregnant Infected stalked into the room's interior, thin strands of glowing saliva dripping onto the floor in its wake. Assessing the room one final time, the Spitter took a tentative step back, shuffling away from the doorway. Moments later, a Smoker emerged from the hallway, a gunshot wound marring its shoulder. A long tendril – different from the various pink appendages slithering around its head and torso – trailed from its neck and through the remains of the door. A similar tendril stretched down the Spitter's back, joining its brother outside of the room. The twin appendages twitched and shook as their source moved from within the corridor.

A slouched, frail-looking creature stumbled into the decimated room, flanked by two regular Infected. The former human on the right was dressed in bloodied scrubs, a former nurse by her appearance. The other: a broad shouldered soldier who was missing an arm, the crooked nametag displayed on his Kevlar vest reading '_Mack_.' A Charger, covered in bullet holes, brought up the rear of the group, taking precise and calculated steps backward while observing the desolate hallway. The Infected at the center of the cluster gazed down at the Tank's corpse, tilting its head to the side in what could only be described as _curiously_.

The frail Infected's cranium was abnormally swollen, expanded to the point where the upper half nearly swallowed up the creature's eyes. Its hair was long since gone, the bone beneath the skin having been practically dissolved away to reveal a quivering, bloated brain. The organ pulsed gently, semi-visible from the confines of the stretched and taut flesh. The former human's chest was bare, devoid of clothing to reveal the clammy gray flesh of an Infected. Scrawny arms hung semi-limply at its front, swaying ever so slightly. Its lower half revealed bare feet and a pair of ragged, black dress pants. The creature's back, by far the most notably affected area – sans its head – by the virus, left a completely exposed vertebra. The bone white disks stood out starkly against the gray flesh. The deterioration spanned from the Infected's lower back all the way up its neck to the base of the former human's brain. Six tendrils – divided evenly around the spinal cord – sprouted from its back, trailing down to the floor and leading to the various Infected clustered around it.

_The Puppeteer…_

That's what it been referred to as since its coming into existence.

Still gazing down at the deceased leviathan, the Puppeteer dragged its vision to the severed tendril still attached to the Tank's back. The tendril had pierced through the gray flesh at the center of the spinal cord, situated between two vertebras. Above the numerous layers of muscle tissue, but just beneath the skin, scores of smaller tendrils snaked their way across the Tank's back. They were like the roots of a plant, spanning out from the focal point of the intruding tendril's entrance. Most of the thicker stems ran up and down the massive Infected's spine, wrapping around the column in an almost possessive manner. The remaining web-like clusters spread away from the vertical tower of bones, skittering away in all directions for roughly twelve to fifteen inches before submerging deep into the Tank's body. Methodically, the Infected assessed the amount of damage that had been dealt to the Tank's corpse at the hands of the Carriers. After a handful of seconds ticked by, the Puppeteer shook its head slowly.

Pity…the Tank had been a useful tool.

Combined with the loss of the Witch in the parking garage, the Puppeteer felt a brief sense of…_vulnerability_…wash over it. The two most lethal types of Infected were no longer in its possession…for the moment, anyway.

Regardless of the loss, the Puppeteer learned something new about humans today…

…A funny thought, really…considering it itself was once human.

For the first time…_it_ had to actually retreat from the survivors…instead of the other way around. Such a fascinating group…the first to actually survive its experiment involving the child and Witch, and the fact that they refused to leave the girl…_Zoey_, was it?

Fascinating, indeed…

The Puppeteer had retreated to another area of the hospital, awaiting the humans' inevitable departure. The survivors had remained until the girl had awoken before clearing out whatever rooms they could for medical supplies. The trio eventually left, the two men sharing looks that bordered between puzzlement and haunted.

Shuffling out into the hallway, the Puppeteer glanced to the double-doors the Carriers had exited through.

The question now was…

Pursue them, or no?

* * *

**Gulf Coast**

_Bullshit._

That was about all Private Rachel Lovecraft could describe this as…pure and utter _bullshit_.

The region was lost…absolute was Green's reign now on the East Coast.

What had they done? _Ran_.

Cross had ordered his remaining troops – all devoutly loyal to him – to flee into the gulf. They had taken up residence in an abandoned oil rig-turned-sea research lab that was just off the coast. His actions…his entire behavior had been nothing short of puzzling to Rachel. There wasn't a shred of doubt in her mind that Daekem was behind the orders.

Even still, she couldn't help but raise the question:

_Why?_

They could have held out longer. They had the manpower, the weapons, the food…so why had their entire garrison been moved to the sea?

Why were confidential containers being flown in from the mainland?

Daekem's toys, she reminded herself, pieces of the CEDA researcher's pet project that had been so deeply under wraps that not even Ryke had known what the scientist was up to. When Atlanta's safe zone had fallen Daekem had been given the green light by CEDA and Congress to do 'anything and everything' to find a cure. Rachel was unaware what 'anything and everything' entailed…but she wasn't quite sure she even _wanted_ to know. The way his eyes lit up with twisted satisfaction upon hearing the news still haunted her even to this day.

Why were unorthodox renovations being made to the rig?

Apparently the oil rig had been decommissioned, and the structure had been remodeled into an aquatic research facility. The group that had purchased the rig had specifically asked that the rig remained intact, as they were out to study the effects of offshore drilling on the ecosystems. Laboratories and several new terraces were built both above and below the platform. Overall, the new rig could house over a hundred people…perfect for their battalion. Despite that, Cross had ordered for extra renovations to be made…nothing that Rachel was privy to, _of course_.

Why did Cross send out a sizeable piece of his men to commandeer a large freighter?

Rachel felt her gaze settle on the massive ship that was anchored a quarter of a mile away from the rig. It made no sense. Acquiring a handful of boats to travel back to the mainland in search of supplies made perfect sense…but a _freighter_? What need did they have for such a massive ship? The only explanation she could even fathom was that they would use it to capture _live_ specimens of the infection. Rachel hoped that wasn't the case…God knows what would happen if a Tank broke free and ran rampant across the rig.

_Why was she even still alive?_

Rachel was one of Ryke's own, loyal to the late general even now. Despite this, she was still alive, much unlike the other late officers who had recently perished at the hands of the infection. Shouldn't she have been killed off by 'natural causes' as well? Was Daekem merely toying with her, taking a sick pleasure in bending her until she snapped? She certainly wouldn't put it past him. Nothing was immoral to Daekem if it was done 'in the name of science.'

"Private!"

Rachel stiffened, turning on her heel and saluting out of mechanical habit. "Sir!"

Sergeant Stephen Bachman – one of Cross' closest confidants – stood before her, flanked by two squads of Special Forces who were all prepped to go into battle.

"Sir?" Rachel repeated, confusion etching across her features.

Bachman regarded her coldly for a moment. "Lieutenant Cross has ordered that you accompany the next 'hunting trip.'"

Rachel felt a shiver of dread shoot up her spine at the words _hunting trip_.

If Bachman noticed the slight change in the private's demeanor, he didn't show it. "You ship out in thirty. Ready up."

"Sir!" A lone private called out as he sprinted toward the group.

"What is it?" The sergeant snapped.

The soldier in question pointed at the sky just as a sheet of darkness swept over the platform. Bachman and Rachel glanced up, noting the ominous expanse of clouds that were advancing on the shoreline. Lightning streaked across the gloomy background, arching down into the ocean a short distance away. The cresting waters became more restless, picking up momentum as the invisible front moved in.

The nameless private stiffened his posture. "We have reports of a category two hurricane rolling in, sir."

Bachman nodded at the two squads – who saluted and moved back into the nearest building – before eyeing Rachel.

"Private, return to your station for the time being, we'll notify you when the schedule has resumed."

Rachel offered the man a brief salute before taking her leave. Even as the wind rolled in, the private could still make out the order that Bachman muttered into his comlink.

"Hunting Party has been postponed, all units on board are ordered to secure everything on the ship before returning to _Eden_."

_Eden._

So that's what they were calling it now. A safe haven away from the horrors that the country was enduring…

…A fitting name.

* * *

**Mobile, Alabama**

"I'm serious, Francis, if you ask again I'm putting a bullet in your ass."

The biker frowned as he stared at Zoey's back, her shoulders hunched tightly together in obvious vexation.

"Just making sure you're alright…that was a pretty bad hit you took back there."

The brown ponytail snapped to the side as Zoey glanced over her shoulder. The chocolate-colored tresses had taken a darker hue, complimented by a slight shimmer thanks to the light sprinkle that descended from the overcast sky. Oceanic eyes glared into Francis' coffee-brown ones.

"And I would understand that being all well and good…ten minutes ago when you asked the _first_ time."

Zoey had expected Louis to laugh and take a verbal shot at the stressed biker, but the businessman had been behaving rather peculiarly as well. Shifted her gaze to the bald man, Zoey noticed that while Louis hadn't been as verbal with his concern, he still shared Francis' afflicted gaze…

…A gaze that had been directed at _her_ ever since they had left the hospital.

The former college student abruptly halted, spinning on her heel to meet the stares of her companions. "Guys, I'm fine…_really_. Hovering over me like a pair of mother hens isn't going to help matters."

Louis shifted awkwardly, looking down at the sodden pavement in mild shame. The Uzi that was normally situated snugly in his hand was strapped to his back, empty and derelict. A simple Glock replaced the machine gun, adding to further remind the survivors of just how strained they were. His machete, which had turned out to be a lifesaver, remained strapped to his uninjured thigh. The businessman looked more haggard than Zoey had ever seen him. Bags sat under his brown eyes, which had turned slightly bloodshot as a result of sleepless nights. Louis' stance had a mild slouch to it, as if the businessman were carrying some invisible weight on his shoulders.

Francis, on the other hand, held the brunette's gaze for a minute before finally relenting. His SPAS, once uniformed and pristine ebony, was now scuffed and scarred, a testament to their struggles. The .50 caliber magnum – often referred to by Francis as his "Third Fist" – sat holstered on the biker's thigh. A worn and beaten up backpack hung off of the tattooed survivor's massive shoulders. Although Francis hid it better than his younger companion, it was still evident that the biker was also lugging around an unseen burden. If not for the miniscule slackening of his shoulders, it would be impossible to tell.

"Alright?" Zoey asked when neither of the men spoke.

Francis sounded off first with a reluctant, "Yeah, yeah."

"Right." Louis murmured, finally averting his gaze from the ground.

Zoey unconsciously bit her lower lip as she observed her two companions.

Had they really been _that_ shaken up by her injury?

The expressions on Francis' and Louis' faces told the whole story:

Haunted and uncertain.

They had just lost Bill…their rock, and were _finally_ moving past his death. Wounds and doubts were being closed, and all three of them were at last standing back up to face the horrors of the Green Flu with the same amount of vigor and drive that they had held when the veteran still walked among them. Zoey wasn't entirely sure what had transpired while she was unconscious, and had a sneaking suspicion that Francis had sugarcoated his retelling for her. Whatever it was…it had thrown the two men completely off kilter. It was as if time had been reversed, taking them back a month when the outbreak had first begun. Three random strangers with nothing in common except for the fact that they weren't succumbing to the virus. A motley crew that didn't have a chance of survival at first glance, thrown from the everyday world they knew into the very gates of Hell.

The confidence was gone…and the drive with it.

Deep blue eyes quickly scanned the block for signs of Infected. Finding none, the former college student stepped up to her fellow survivors. Hooking her arms around both of their shoulders – as far she could with Francis, anyway – Zoey pulled them down until all three were touching heads. The brunette's oceanic eyes met their confused gazes with mild amusement.

"We're in this together," Zoey whispered, her eyes drifting shut. "And we'll make it through this…_together_."

Francis and Louis merely stared.

"If not for ourselves…then for Bill."

_That_ seemed to hit home.

Eyes still closed, Zoey's face fell when she felt their bodies tense. "We've been to Hell and back…and yet I know it's far from over."

She could feel the tremble that had crept into her voice, her mind already beginning to doubt the confidence in her own words. Zoey nearly flinched when a light pressure was applied to her back. The brunette didn't need to open her eyes to know that Francis and Louis had extended their hands, wrapping their arms around her in a comforting group hug.

"We've got this, Zo." The low baritone of Francis' voice rumbled through the air like distant thunder.

"Damn straight. We are the _Unstoppables_ after all, aren't we?" Louis quipped in amusement.

Zoey beamed, nodding with a newfound confidence as the trio broke their miniature huddle. She noted with elation that Louis now stood straighter, the invisible weight that had been dragging him down seemingly gone. The glint had returned to Francis' eye, the same blazing determination that Zoey had witnessed firsthand during their stand in Pensacola. The brunette paused as she rounded the abandoned dune buggy, taking notice of a worn, dark green duffle bag sitting in the backseat for the first time.

"Uh…guys?" Zoey called out while reaching out to pick up the bag. "Did we snag a duffle bag at our last stop?"

"Duffle bag?" Francis muttered slowly while stepping closer for a better look.

A blur of movement shot out from behind the vehicle before either could react. In an instant, an arm wrapped itself around Zoey's neck, squeezing tightly. The brunette struggled for a moment, until the barrel of a gun was pressed threateningly against her temple. Francis charged forward menacingly, massive hand already reaching for his holstered magnum.

The gun nudged Zoey's head. "Ah, ah, ah…I'd stop right there, big fella."

The heavy southern drawl flooded Zoey's ear, forcing the young woman to unconsciously cringe _and_ roll her eyes at the same time.

"Wouldn't want the pretty lil lady's brains to get sprayed _all_ over the road, now would we?"

"Oh, for the love of…" Zoey muttered, wanting nothing more than to stick her foot up her assaulter's ass.

Another nudge from the pistol, "That's enough outta you, missy."

Louis glared in disgust as he kept his pistol trained on the offending man. He was around six-foot or so, not quite towering over Zoey as he held her at gunpoint. His clothes were a bit tattered and bloodstained, hair all askew and a pair of cracked, orange goggles resting over his eyes. A standard Beretta was gripped firmly in his hand, which happened to be pressing against the side of Zoey's head.

The businessman glared when the orange-tinted pair of eyes flickered over him. "That 'no moving' shit goes double for you, nigger; don't think I won't pop a round in her – or your – fucking skull!"

Louis blinked, taken aback momentarily before rage swelled within him. "You racist son of a…"

"Louis."

The dark-skinned man paused, bald head swiveling toward Francis' stony form.

"I understand the hatred…but let's wait to kill his ass _after_ we get Zo away from him."

Francis didn't take his eyes off of the goggled man the entire time he addressed his companion. The biker's voice remained even, and, if anything, his hand had drifted closer to the magnum at his thigh. Louis relented, forcing the anger to take a temporary backseat for the meantime.

The goggled man sneered at Francis. "That's a funny joke, big boy…so funny that my finger may just slip from laughing so hard."

For emphasis, the Beretta was forcefully mashed against the tender flesh above Zoey's temple, earning a pained hiss from the brunette.

"What the hell are you doing, Al?" a new voice demanded.

The group snapped their attention to a trio of men emerging from the adjacent building. The head of the group – the one who had spoken – was decked out in a pair of baggy jean shorts, partially obstructed by a long, tan overcoat. Beneath the overcoat he wore a tattered grey sweatshirt. The hood was pulled up, basking the upper half of his face in shadow. His nose and mouth were covered by a bandana. The piece of cloth was unsettling in a way, as the design stretching across the triangular material was that of a sinister grin. It reminded Louis of a scarecrow's mouth, various stitched X's running along the malevolent, jagged smile. A sawed-off shotgun was slung casually over his shoulder.

Just behind the scarecrow's left stood a man who looked more likely to be a part of SWAT than some ragtag bunch. He was fully suited in Kevlar, elbow and kneepads, a black balaclava, and a menacing M16 – much like the one Bill had favored – gripped tightly in his hands. Judging from appearance alone, it could be surmised that he knew his way around the assault rifle…and wouldn't be afraid to use it either.

The final member of the trio was fully garbed in a worn and bloodied business suit. A striped blue tie was loosened haphazardly, a minuscule detail compared to the WWII-stylized gasmask that was fitted over his head. The solid black lenses flashed ominously as a bolt of lightning skittered across the darkening sky, reflecting the two raised Springfield pistols in his hands.

The goggled man – Al – gestured toward Francis and Louis. "These bastards were trying to steal our shit, Mike!"

The hooded man peered at the biker and businessman before pulling the shotgun from his shoulder, aiming the firearm at them. Francis growled, temporarily breaking his focus on the muzzle of the offending shotgun to eye the balaclava-wearing man. The M16 was raised cautiously with the business end of the weapon pointed threateningly at Louis, who merely glared in response.

The bandana around Mike's mouth moved slightly. "We can't have that now, can we?"

"Foster, get over here!" Al ordered, nodding his head at the suited man in the gasmask.

Al shoved Zoey into Foster's arms who, after a brief struggle, restrained the brunette by wrenching her arms behind her back, a pistol pushed against her lower jaw as a warning. Francis had made a move forward during the ordeal, but was subdued when the balaclava-wearing man stepped between the two parties, rifle raised to eye level.

"Sorry to be doing this to you, miss." A light, muffled English accent apologized through the mask.

"Not sorry enough, pal." Zoey snarled while struggling against Foster's grip.

Mike ignored the fleeting exchange of words. "Wilkes, keep an eye on the big one."

The balaclava-covered head nodded sharply. "Got it."

Surmising that the situation was now under control, Mike allowed the shotgun to fall to his side. "My name's Mike Noble…not like surnames hold any value anymore. This your buggy?"

Jaw set, Francis nodded stiffly. "Yeah…"

Al made a loud and obnoxious sound in his throat, cutting the biker off. "Wrong answer!"

Stony brown eyes glared at the goggled man as he casually strolled toward their owner.

"He's right," Mike added, referring to Al. "Finders, keepers."

"It's out of gas." Francis bluntly stated, keeping his gaze locked onto the roaming goggled man.

Al cackled as he rounded Francis' large frame. "Was _just_ in the middle of fillin'er up when y'all showed up."

The biker's eyes flashed, widening ever so slightly…and the expression didn't go unnoticed by the hooded man.

"See? We've got the gas…although the keys would be fantastic right about now."

Mike held out his hand expectantly, eyes traveling back and forth between Louis and Francis. When neither moved, the bandana puffed out slightly as the man sighed in exasperation.

"We can always just kill the girl…"

Louis' eyes bulged in their sockets as Mike trailed off, a cold sweat breaking out across his brow. His jaw fell open, releasing a tiny and strangled gasp.

Mike held the stressed businessman's terrified gaze, "We don't want to…be we're not afraid to, either."

The bald survivor's head snapped toward Francis so swiftly that faint _cracks_ could be heard emanating from the young man's neck. Louis silently obliged Francis, who offered a terse nod, his jaw setting even tighter if possible. Digging out the keys, the businessman offered them to Wilkes, but was cut off by Mike.

"No…toss them to me. I can't have you trying anything funny during this already less-than-pleasant experience."

Louis complied, biting the inside of his cheek the entire time.

"You can have the buggy…we can always find another vehicle," Francis muttered, barely keeping the edge from his voice. "At least release our friend."

Al let loose another crow of amusement, circling Francis once more…this time gently prodding the biker with his Beretta.

"Nah…I say we keep her. She could prove valuable for…_entertainment_ purposes."

Zoey's struggles reignited, the lithe woman thrashing about with as much strength as she could muster against Foster's grip.

"When I get loose, I'm going to force feed you your balls!"

Al's face twisted into a perverted grin. "Feisty…I like that."

Francis' arm shot out like a cannon, gripping the goggled man's wrist with enough force that he could practically _feel_ the various bones of the limb snap. The Beretta fell from Al's limp grasp as a scream of agony erupted from the man's lips. The biker's other hand reached out, catching the falling pistol while simultaneously whirling the redneck around. Pinning Al's broken arm behind his own back, Francis brutally shoved the barrel of the handgun against the goggled man's temple.

Wilkes' M16 was instantly trained on Francis while Mike cursed quietly from behind his bandana. Zoey grinned from her place in Foster's hold, noting with satisfaction that the Englishman had muttered a quiet obscenity from his place behind her. Louis appeared torn between wanting to collapse in relief and whooping with joy.

Francis smirked up at Mike. "How about a trade instead?"

The hooded man glared at the biker through lidded eyes. Francis responded by tightening his grip on Al's arm, earning a pained cry from the goggled man. Mike groaned and shook his head slowly.

"We're still taking the buggy."

Francis scowled at the shotgun-toting man. "I already told you that I don't give a shit about the buggy…that thing's nothing more than a hunk of scrap metal compared to her."

Mike glanced at Louis, who nodded wholeheartedly in agreement. The hooded man peeked at Zoey form the corner of his eye, expecting to see the young woman with a touched expression on her face. To his surprise, the brunette held her grin, seemingly unfazed by her companion's words.

'Not unfazed,' the hooded man corrected himself silently. 'Familiar.'

She wasn't moved by it because she simply already knew it.

"You're lucky we're still in need of a mechanic, Al."

Mike jerked his head at Foster, who stared at Francis through the blackened lenses. "On three?"

The biker nodded.

The gasmask's filter inched closer to Zoey's ear. "Please don't swing at me when I let you go."

"No promises," was the hissed response.

Francis forcefully shoved Al forward, dropping the Beretta to his side as Foster released Zoey. Out of fear from any form of retaliation on the brunette's part, Foster had given Zoey a quick and solid push. The jarring movement caused the young woman's dog tag to come undone, and aggravated the wound on her side. Al tenderly held his broken arm to his chest as the oval piece of metal hit the pavement.

"Gimme back my gun, you son of a bitch!"

The tattooed survivor offered the goggled man a shark-like grin. "Finders, keepers."

As the mechanic fumed silently, Zoey gingerly clutched her side and bent down to retrieve the fallen tag, but was halted when a booted foot was placed over the glinting metal. Oceanic eyes glared furiously up into the shaded orbs of Mike Noble.

"Give it back," the brunette demanded vehemently.

A hard shove was his response.

Zoey stumbled back as Mike retrieved the dog tag from the ground. The former college student was moving forward before she could even fully assess the situation.

All that mattered was getting the tag back.

A large hand was placed on Zoey's shoulder, halting her in her tracks. Craning her head around, the brunette came face to face with Francis. The biker didn't meet her gaze however, his brown eyes locked fully on Mike as the hooded man's comrades regrouped around the buggy.

Noble's eyes skimmed over the inscribed words. "Touching."

"Give it back, _now_."

Mike tossed the dog tag into the air and caught it, impassively sweeping his eyes over the three survivors. "If it's so important…how about another trade?"

"Words cannot describe how much I want to shoot you right now."

Francis and Zoey blinked, both turning to send Louis looks of surprise at the businessman's sudden outburst. Even Mike seemed a bit baffled at the direct and angered tone that came from the rather quiet man.

"It holds sentimental value…just give it back to her."

The hooded man regarded the dark-skinned survivor. "Hence the trade…if you truly value it so highly, then you'll be willing to give something up for it…"

"Like my Beretta!" Al piped indignantly, glaring daggers at Francis.

"Fine by me," the biker muttered.

Mike shook his head. "No. I'm afraid that's not a very even trade."

Francis frowned deeply, not liking where this was going. "What? Are you saying you want _our_ guns too?"

"A tempting offer, I won't lie," the hooded man conceded. "But we already possess enough weaponry and ammunition."

Coffee-brown eyes stared coldly into shadowed grey.

"Your pack."

"Shit," Francis hissed under his breath.

"You don't even have to tell me what's in it…we'll take it as is. Sound fair?"

Louis growled, "Like hell it does."

"Deal."

Louis gaped at the side of Francis' head as the biker shucked the bag off of his wide shoulders. Zoey stared in an equal amount of shock, deep blue eyes desperately searching for some kind of answer in Francis' face.

"No more getting hurt for a while." Francis joked with a small chuckle.

_Like hell Bill's memory is going to die on that note._

Foster holstered a Springfield, catching the worn backpack as it was thrown at him. Mike tossed the dog tag to Zoey, who caught it without breaking the evil eye she currently had locked onto the hooded man.

The suited man thumbed the bag strap nervously. "It's not like we want to do this…"

Mike interjected, silencing Foster with a look. "Only the fittest can survive now…even if that means treating everyone else like shit."

The survivors shared looks of disgust.

"Leave now…we won't shoot you so long as you do nothing more to antagonize us…you have my word."

Zoey snorted.

Francis herded his companions past the confiscated vehicle, leading them down a back alley and away from Noble's calculating gaze.

"Thank you." Zoey mumbled, placing the dog tag once more around her neck.

Francis merely shrugged. "I was serious about the 'no more getting hurt' thing."

"Man, why can't we just go ambush the bastards and take the buggy back?" Louis asked impatiently.

"You gotta pick your battles, Louis," Francis answered while running a gloved hand over his shaven head. "And that's a battle we can't win no matter how hard we try."

**To Be Continued…**

* * *

**Up Next: Hurricane Zombie**

_** "Well…any bright ideas?"**_

_** A blast of thunder and a howl of wind signaled another squall…**_

_** …And then a loud **_**creak**_**.**_

_** "Louis! Get away from the shack!"**_

_** Various areas of the wooden framing twisted and snapped, a heart-stopping groan emitting from the structure. Louis attempted to move away from the inevitable fall, but his legs seemed to slosh through the floodwaters at a snail's pace. The building toppled forward, fragmenting into several pieces mid-fall. The businessman glanced over his shoulder just in time to see a rather large support pillar falling toward him. In a last ditch effort, Louis threw himself to the side as the pillar came crashing down.**_

_** "Louis!"**_

* * *

**A/N: Okay…so…Confu's been a little…how should I put this? AWOL? Yeah, that works. So it all started with Spring Finals…**

**Confu's List of Excuses for Absence:**

**Ninjas tried to take my computer.**

**Moved back home for break.**

**Worked all summer to ensure that I don't starve this semester.**

**Swapped majors.**

**Created a small "Casey Anthony killed my CHILD…hood" T-shirt stint.**

**Was blindsided by two separate story ideas: one a prologue for the entire L4D storyline and a sequel for **_**The Red Tide**_**.**

**Tested the waters with said ideas…found both viable and capable of working.**

**The supposed "End of the World" not ending threw me off. Thanks a lot, Harry.**

**My head apparently decided that it was fed up with my laptop and decided to go for attempted murder…that hurt. Laptop worked for a whole two seconds after recollecting myself before giving me the dreaded blue screen of doom, force restarting on its own, and then continuously freezing on the loading screen. Took it to Geek Squad, fingers crossed that they don't charge me out the ass for repairs. The laptop had pretty much 75% of this chapter…and the **_**next**_** chapter on it.**

**Had to rewrite chapter like…four times as such.**

**-End list-**

**As you can see, this isn't 'Hurricane Zombie.' There's a good reason for that. After **_**all**_** the rewrites and the obstacles being overcome…the current version was…long, to say the least. Not that that's a bad thing, but given that over three months of inactivity, regardless of the chapter's length, is absolutely inexcusable on my part, I decided to split the damn thing in half. I did so because I just know that if I allow a chapter to hit over 10k words so soon in the project, then I'll subconsciously set the bar that high for myself for future chapters…and I kinda have a rough deadline in mind for this project.**

'**Hurricane Zombie' will be released about a week from now…maybe a little sooner. It all depends on whether or not I need to go browsing for a new laptop.**

**Moving on, now you have it…a glimpse at my favorite of all the custom Infected that I've pondered over: the Puppeteer. **

**Once again, I deeply apologize for my inactivity over the past few months, and I shall see to it that it never happens again.**

**As always, reviews and feedback are appreciated.**

**- C.C.**


	8. Hurricane Zombie

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Left 4 Dead franchise, Valve does.**

**Thanks once again to my reviewers and to all of you who added 'Red' to your Favorites/Alerts.**

**Patrick the PROTOTYPE: Thank you very much. Unfortunately, there were no cans lying around for Francis to use…and he'd need an eye patch…..hmmmm….**

**Anna-Selene-Darkness: Perfection? You humble me. **

**The Ninja Platypus: Indeed, it does seem that way, doesn't it…the chapter ending being lackluster. I'll probably go in and tidy it up later, and as for the Puppeteer, it is indeed a crazy, mind-control zombie…but much, much more.**

**Kaelius537744: That slightly-off-track-but-still-parallel-plot was exactly what I was shooting for, and Valve will not hire me for one solid and understandable reason: L4D's dev team would murder me after I tear into them on how their official add-on maps (Crash Course, The Passing, Cold Stream, etc.) are slacking in comparison to many custom campaigns that I've played.**

**Alexandra . Weedall: And here is more! You'll probably be disappointed on the kissing note. On the Rochelle note: that is coming soon.  
**

* * *

Chapter 7: Hurricane Zombie

"_Let the rain wash away your sins…so that you may drown in them."_

* * *

_E pluribus unum…out of many, one._

* * *

**Mobile, Alabama**

Francis knew that he had most certainly voiced it before…but he really, _really_, _**REALLY**_ hated the South right now.

The reasons were relatively simple ones.

The heat.

The humidity.

The shark attacks.

The large quantities of elderly people that were _way_ too tan for their own, wrinkly good.

The occasional inbred hicks.

…

…Oh, and _hurricanes_.

He really, _really_ hated the South for its hurricanes.

Especially now as another squall of wind and rain pounded against his face.

"Stay close!" Francis hollered over the excessive winds.

The biker spared a fleeting glance over his shoulder, appraising the conditions of his comrades. Louis was barely out of arm's reach, his forearm thrown over his eyes in a futile attempt to shield them from the driving rain. His other hand gripped Zoey's arm tightly, using his own body as a makeshift anchor to ensure the lithe woman wasn't whisked away by the wind. The brunette cringed against the stinging gale while leaning further against the invisible force in an effort to stay upright. The nearly knee-high water certainly wasn't helping matters, either. Each step, coupled with the effort needed to combat the wind, was rapidly sapping the young woman of her strength.

"We need to find some cover!" Zoey shouted.

She was afraid her voice had been lost in the storm, but sure enough, Francis swiveled his shaven head around. "Easier said than done! I can't even see six feet in front of me!"

A muffled screech reached the biker's ears as an Infected tore through the water at a baffling speed for a human. Although the former human was no more than a fuzzy silhouette lost in the wall of rain, it was all Francis needed. A cone of fire exploded from the muzzle of his shotgun, briefly illuminating the cold look in his eyes. A web of lightning danced across the sky barely even an instant later, casting a bright haze over the scene. The pale light brightened the Infected's face, bringing the frozen, twisted snarl to light with vivid clarity. The darkened water sloshed in a chaotic ripple as the former human pitched backward, falling under the murky surface.

Francis ejected the used cartridge, the emotionless mask still covering his face. Ignoring the inky red hue the water around his legs was turning, the tattooed survivor cocked his head back.

"How many was that?"

"I think that was number twelve!" Louis answered after a small pause.

"Twelve? Huh, feels like more," Francis muttered.

The Infected had been persistent regardless of the weather and had come charging out into the storm, with each one getting _that_ much closer to them before it was put down.

Frankly, that little observation was beginning to unnerve the hell out of Francis.

Mainly due to the fact that he did _not_ want to admit that the torrential rain and winds were slowly but surely sapping him of his energy. Fortunately, Lady Luck seemed to cut them some slack as the wind gradually died down, tilting the rainfall back to a more vertical angle. As such, the biker could finally make out the silhouette of a once invisible, _completed_ house in the distance. Gone were the office buildings and stores of downtown, replaced now by the quaint dwellings of the suburbs…

…Or at least…partially-built clusters of bare, wooden frames that _hadn't_ been immediately toppled by the hurricane's landfall. Louis had surmised that they must be in some sort of area for housing development.

"Just a little further!"

"Guys…I…I'm not feeling too hot…"

Francis glanced back in time to see Zoey sway dangerously to the side, nearly collapsing into the floodwaters. Louis jolted forward and was barely able to steady the brunette before he could be dragged down too. The biker trudged over to them, vaguely noting that the water now reached his knees. Zoey gave her head a quick shake, vainly trying to bring clarity to her blurred vision.

"You alright, Zo?" The apprehensiveness in Louis' voice was not lost on the young woman, even in her less-than-favorable state of mind.

A weak nod was all he received in reply.

Francis kept his gaze on the brunette. "Just a little further, we can take shelter in that house up ahead."

Zoey pulled herself from Louis' supportive grasp, stumbling forward as her legs turned to jelly.

Just a little further.

Darkness crept forth from the edges of her vision and the monotone sound of rainfall had lulled to something barely more than dull static.

One step.

She could see the house in the rain-cast distance.

Two steps.

The feeling of the hunting rifle slipping from her hands barely registered in her mind.

Three steps.

Her arms felt like lead weights anyway.

Four steps.

Out of the rain…maybe a nice, comfy bed.

Five steps.

Maybe there'd be some nonperishables…

Six steps.

…Canned peaches sounded unbelievably good right now.

Seven steps…and everything was swept away by darkness.

Francis cursed loudly and lunged forward, barely catching Zoey before the waters could embrace her in their chilling grip. Louis was at his side in an instant, staggering over as fast as the water would allow him. The businessman gently put two fingers to the lithe woman's neck, exhaling in relief when he found a pulse.

"Second-to-worst case scenario," Louis offered, feeling Francis' inquiring stare. "She didn't die…but she's gone and pushed herself too far, too soon after her injury."

The bald survivor glanced up at his companion. "Her body isn't ready for the amount of strain she's putting on it."

"Will she be okay?"

"We need to get her out of this weather and find some food and water, _now_."

Under any other circumstances, Francis would have smirked and gestured to the torrential rain, following it up with a snarky remark about how they had _plenty_ of water. Instead, the biker nodded and removed the scoped rifle from around Zoey's shoulder.

"You're on point," the tattooed survivor ordered while tossing the firearm to the businessman.

Louis wordlessly complied, flipping the rifle's strap over his shoulder before shuffling up to the front. Francis hooked his arm underneath Zoey's legs and hoisted her up, taking care to keep her head cradled against his shoulder. Déjà vu washed over the biker.

"Dumbass…" Francis murmured softly as he gazed at the young woman's unconscious form.

"Francis?" Louis called back, noticing that the taller man wasn't following.

"Yeah, yeah…I'm coming."

* * *

"Jesus…how come these things are so _fast_ in the water?"

Francis gave a weak grunt in reply, just loud enough for the businessman to hear. The constant exposure to the storm was beginning to tax the biker, something he wasn't willing to admit to his younger companion. He had long since shut out a vast majority of the world around him, putting his complete faith in the rifle-toting businessman to protect them. His motor functions were redistributed to two things: keeping Zoey secure and moving forward. The sound around them had faded to a dull roar, occasionally rising in volume whenever the wind picked up. Hell, Louis' voice was the only thing of mild clarity that Francis could even hear…that and the sharp _bang_ that emitted from the rifle's muzzle whenever an Infected got too close.

_Bang!_

Oh…there goes another one.

Number twenty-five.

_Bang!_

Twenty-six?

Francis temporarily broke his steadfast gaze on the shrouded house up the road. The biker glanced over at the young businessman and to the floating corpse in the water.

The _one_ corpse.

The tattooed survivor felt his brow furrow in concern. Zoey may have been the crack-shot of their group, but Louis was by no means a pushover when it came to accuracy. That, coupled with the fact that it had taken the businessman two tries to put down an Infected at such close proximity…it meant that the storm was beginning to affect Louis as well.

"How're you holding up?" Francis called over the wind, growling to himself as another squall swept over the area.

A poignant pause confirmed the biker's fears.

"I'm fine!"

Louis was leaning forward again, pushing his body against the wall of wind in an effort to keep himself upright. The house they were seeking out was just past an intersection up ahead, less than a block away.

As the near-horizontal rainfall once more shrouded the structure, the distance was beginning to feel more like a mile…

…A flooded, zombie-filled, pain-in-the-ass mile.

Francis noticed Louis halt momentarily, eyeing a shoddy house directly to their left. 'House' wasn't the proper term for it, as the building had obviously been hastily erected, nowhere even remotely complete. It was nothing more than wooden framework, what little remained of the siding, and the roof…

…_What_ roof?

It was more like a shack than a house, and Francis got the feeling that the whole thing would collapse at any moment against the hurricane-force gale. Louis seemed to notice the house's weakness as well, as the young businessman gave his head a quick shake before trudging onward. The small delay allowed Francis to catch up to his younger companion, now merely a step behind the bald survivor as they reached the intersection.

"Almost there…"

Francis could barely hear the businessman's muttered words before Louis stuck his foot out into what the biker could only surmise was the road. The younger man's body abruptly swiveled, a look of distress plastered to his face moments before an invisible force began sweeping his body down the flooded road.

Francis didn't even have the luxury of cursing before his left arm shot out from underneath the crook of Zoey's legs. His large hand barely managed to grasp Louis' before the businessman could be whisked away. The sharp movements from the entire ordeal caused the younger survivor's things to shift about. The Uzi broke free, hovering above the water's surface momentarily before the murky depths claimed it. Louis' head snapped around when he felt Zoey's rifle slip from his hand. With a blind and desperate grasp, the dark-skinned survivor managed to catch the gun's strap.

With a grunt of effort, Francis pulled his companion from the intersection, releasing his grip once he was sure the younger man was safe. Briefly checking to make sure Zoey was still secure in his other arm, the biker allowed his gaze to settle on the road's intersection. It was hardly visible through the rain, but sure enough, there it was:

A current.

Brown orbs turned to the right, looking up the road to confirm their owner's fears. The silhouettes of the structures and trees sat a little higher in the distance, while the ones on the left sat lower.

A downhill slope, not very deep, but apparently enough to work up a decent flood current.

"Shit…damn thing took my Uzi," Louis growled while glaring at the road-turned-river. "How are we supposed to cross this?"

Francis shrugged and hoisted Zoey back into his arms, turning at the waist to meet the younger man's gaze. Louis grabbed onto one of the shack's wooden beams and used it as support pull himself to his feet.

"Well…any bright ideas?"

A blast of thunder and a howl of wind signaled another squall…

…And then a loud _creak_.

"Louis! Get away from the shack!"

Various areas of the wooden framing twisted and snapped, a heart-stopping groan emitting from the structure. Louis attempted to move away from the inevitable fall, but his legs seemed to slosh through the floodwaters at a snail's pace. The building toppled forward, fragmenting into several pieces mid-fall. The businessman glanced over his shoulder just in time to see a rather large support pillar falling toward him. In a last ditch effort, Louis threw himself to the side as the pillar came crashing down.

"**Louis!**"

Even through the gale, Francis could hear the sickening _crack_ as both Louis and the support column collapsed into the water. Trudging forward, the biker frantically searched through the wreckage of floating debris. He felt his heart quicken when no immediate sign on the businessman could be found.

"God damn it, manager….where the hell are you?"

A brief flicker of white floating a few feet away caught Francis' eye. Pushing through the wreckage, the large survivor practically sighed in relief when he came across the younger man's body, but promptly sobered when he noticed the businessman had yet to move. Releasing Zoey's legs, Francis mentally thanked whatever kind of god there was that Louis had landed face up. Reaching down, the tattooed survivor allowed the sigh of relief to reach the rest of his body.

A pulse.

A pulse meant that at least Louis was alive…although that head wound wasn't looking too good. The businessman apparently couldn't dodge the entire beam as a steady trickle of blood mingled with raindrops on the side of his head. It wasn't life-threatening yet – Francis surmised – but that would quickly change if the bleeding didn't stop soon. The biker once again reached down, this time to lightly smack the good side of Louis' face.

No response…shit.

Both Zoey _and_ Louis were now down for the count. He had to hurry…he needed to get them out of the storm.

_Now_.

Francis felt his anxiety steadily rise as he quickly scanned the area for _any_ signs of shelter.

None.

None, except for the house across the road.

"You guys **so** owe me for this."

Wasting little time, Francis carefully slung Zoey's unconscious form over his shoulder, hoping that her injured side wouldn't be jarred too much. Pulling the scoped rifle from the water, the biker threw the strap around his shoulder, securing the firearm so that his fit snugly beside his shotgun. Lastly, Francis hooked his free arm around Louis's midsection and pulled the prone man from the floodwater's murky grip, adjusting the injured man so that he dangled from the tattooed limb at the biker's side.

Taking a deep breath, Francis inwardly prayed that there were no more Infected standing between him and the house. With both arms now full and occupied, the massive survivor had no way of defending himself without dropping – and potentially injuring – one of his companions.

"Hope you're watching my back up there, old man."

The first step was the worst.

Francis released a grunt of surprise, quickly righting himself against the sideways current of water. No wonder the flow had nearly swept Louis away, this damn thing was _strong_. It took Francis nearly a minute to take a step forward. The road wasn't that wide, but _Christ_ did it feel a whole lot wider. Coffee-brown eyes would occasionally break their hold on the house to briefly assess the unconscious bodies in the biker's arms.

Oh, they were _really_ going to owe him after this.

Halfway across the makeshift river, Francis felt the current suddenly pick up, much to his horror. Try as he might to resist the unyielding flux, the biker felt his feet slip away from the asphalt. The tattooed survivor roared as the flow began to take him further away from the house. Francis sucked in a deep breath to let loose a string of curses, but was left hacking and sputtering when the clouded water rushed into his opened mouth. Ignoring the current's attempt to drown him, the biker heaved his arms up, endeavoring to keep his unconscious companions' heads above the surface.

This was _not_ good.

Craning his neck, Francis felt his heart briefly stop.

The downgrade of the hill's slope was increasing, effectively turning the intersection a block away into a deathtrap of whirlpools and rapids.

God. Fucking. Damn it.

Francis hissed as a small wave curled up and sloshed him in the face. Eyes stinging, the large survivor glanced up the hill and inwardly cursed again. This was just not his day. Turning back around and pointedly ignoring the ominous, swirling pit at the bottom of the hill, Francis searched for anything that he could latch onto. A tilted traffic sign about twenty meters downhill looked enticing.

The question was would it hold?

Growling – and not like he had any other options anyway – Francis kicked as hard as he could, his massive frame sluggishly cutting through the rough water's flux.

Ten meters.

The tattooed survivor pivoted so he was facing up hill.

Five meters.

'Need to time it just right.'

One meter.

Francis' left leg shot out, the back of his knee catching the metal pole. Bending his leg, the biker strained the limb's muscles for everything they were worth to successfully anchor him against the impromptu stream. Already his leg was beginning to burn with fatigue, but he was so close to the edge of the current he could practically taste it. With a roar, the biker pulled his aching body around the road sign while simultaneously freeing his exhausted leg. Taking a moment to catch his breath, Francis allowed the stream to push him against the sign, which thankfully provided a barrier between him as the ensuing death below…

…That was until the sign began to tilt even further.

In a last ditch effort, Francis pushed off of the traffic sign with his right foot. Reeling his right arm back, the biker unceremoniously tossed Zoey's unconscious body up onto the sodden, grassy yard. The word 'yard' was a bit of a stretch, seeing how it was more along the lines of an elevated lot of grass; most likely the site of a future house. He was certain that the rough care wouldn't bold well for the brunette's injury, but the biker would take that over Zoey flat out dying any day.

With an arm free, Francis dug his hand into the mud, securing himself and Louis from being swept away. The upper half of his body may have been out of the water, but that didn't stop the raging current that still rushed past his legs from potentially pulling him under without warning. Once he was sure he was situated enough, the large survivor hoisted his unconscious comrade up and shoved him onto the soggy enclave beside Zoey. Grunting, Francis slowly rolled his body out of the water and onto the shore.

God was he tired.

No rest for the wicked though.

Flipping onto his stomach, Francis pushed himself up into a kneeling position and quickly assessed the situation.

They were out of the water: that was good.

They were still out in the storm: that was bad.

He still had their guns…sans Louis' Uzi: that was good.

Louis and Zoey were _still_ unconscious: that was bad.

The house wasn't too far off: that was both good and bad.

Good in that it was still there and within a short walking distance…

…And bad in that it was within walking distance and not right in front of his face.

Glimpsing over his shoulder, the biker was mildly surprised that the road sign was still there…only now bent to a near-horizontal angle. Francis slowly rose to his feet, wincing when his left leg flared in pain. Oh yeah, that was going to hurt in the morning. With a slight limp in his step, the tattooed survivor trudged through the mud over to his two companions, noting that they were both lying on their sides.

Good.

If they were face down, they'd be drowning in mud, face up and they'd be drowning in rain.

They were a little muddy now, but he figured that that little fact wouldn't mean much to them so long as they made it out. Bending down to retrieve Louis, Francis paused when something caught his eye further up the road. The biker narrowed his eyes and reached back, cautiously pulling his shotgun from its strap.

Something was floating down the road...

…Something _big_.

Francis brought the sights of his firearm to his eye, body rigid and tense for whatever may happen. As the object drew closer, the biker realized it was a vehicle of sorts…an oddly shaped one at that. The squall died away, taking with it a fraction of the obscure wall of rain.

Holy shit.

It was the buggy…

…Or at least what was left of it.

The vehicle was a crumpled heap of metal and plastic. The front-passenger tire was twisted up – axel and all – in a violent way. The metal framing that had once crisscrossed over the passenger area of the buggy was warped and lacerated in various places; not even an inch retained its former shape. It didn't take a genius to figure out _what_ had gotten its hands on the vehicle.

As the buggy drifted by, Francis bit back a grimace.

Mangled bodies were buried underneath the gnarled metal coffin. A half-crushed face, courtesy of one of the horizontal arches, stood out, eternally frozen in an image of agonized terror. The orange goggles were still situated over his eyes, but the colored plastic had shattered against the unforgiving steel. The metal was lodged through his right eye, extricating the squishy orb and causing it to hang by the thin tendon amongst a waterfall of blood and rain. A headless body garbed in a bulletproof vest was folded in half on the back seat, a black balaclava barely visible amongst the gore that sat where the remains of an obliterated skull were.

An arm, clad in the sleeve of a tattered business suit, was the only thing that managed to escape the twisted grave. The hand was outstretched with its palm stuck open in what Francis could only guess was a pleading gesture. No help would come for it though. As the buggy was swept away, Francis tore his eyes from the brutal scene. Nothing more could be done.

"Help!"

Francis' head snapped up, coffee-brown eyes locking on the source of the voice.

Mike. Fucking. Noble.

Mike-fucking-Noble who was currently being carried down the road by the water's current. The biker had wondered why the asshole's body wasn't with the rest of his group, and now he had his answer. Francis watched on emotionlessly as Mike latched onto the traffic sign with one arm, his other a contorted, bloody mess.

"Please, big guy…help me!"

Things began to fall into place in Francis' mind. The suited one with the gasmask…Foster, was it? He must have been with the other two in the buggy when the Tank had struck. The buggy was a damn deathtrap waiting to happen. Fearing for his life, Foster had extended his hand, begging for Noble to help them…

…And Noble had abandoned them.

"Are you **listening** to me? Help me out here!"

Francis regarded the man quietly through cold eyes before he lumbered over to the sign.

"Oh, thank fucking Christ!" Noble shouted in relief.

Francis planted his foot on the metal pole, taking a twisted pleasure in seeing the struggling man's eyes widen in trepidation.

"What are you **doing**?"

The tattooed survivor stared down at Noble impassively.

"Only the fittest can survive now."

Noble's eyes practically bulged from their sockets upon hearing the chillingly ironic words.

"Please…"

Francis ignored the plea and kicked out, freeing the traffic sign completely from its wedge. Noble screamed as he was dragged away by the current, his body falling beneath the murky depths in a matter of seconds.

"…Even if that means treating everyone else like shit," Francis murmured, staring at the spot where Noble had disappeared. "And shit goes around."

Allowing the perfect moment of twisted satire to pass, a shudder rippled across Francis' body. A feathery lightness settled within the back of his skull. The tingle – something that the biker could already surmise was definitely _not_ good – crept through his brain with a minute pain. Wide shoulders slumped as Francis gingerly brought his fingers to his temple, desperately trying to will away the lightheadedness that would surely best him at the rate this was going. The adrenaline that had been fueling his taxed limbs faded, and the large survivor staggered while trudging through the grassy mud to retrieve his companions.

When Francis reached down for Zoey, the forsaking numbness spiked through his skull and temporarily robbed him on his footing. With a quiet yelp of surprise, the biker stumbled and collapsed to the side, barely able to steer his massive frame to the left to avoid crushing the brunette under his weight. Sputtering, Francis rolled himself onto his back, vaguely aware of the fog that was creeping around premises of his vision. He needed to get up. He needed to get the others out of this deadly weather.

Yet his body would not move.

"How's this for irony," Francis muttered weakly. "All the fuckin' vampires in the world couldn't kill us…but now some wind and rain's gonna do the trick."

Closing his eyes, the biker cursed their luck. It was the devil's luck; no doubt about it now…always had been a double-edged sword with them.

They were immune to the virus…only to find out they were Carriers.

Every time they thought they had escaped…shit would happen and they'd be pulled right back into this hellhole.

Bill sacrificed himself so that they could escape…only for their way out to be utterly destroyed.

They found medical supplies…but nearly at the cost of Zoey's life.

They had finally nabbed a vehicle…only to have it taken from them by a bunch of assholes.

Now they had found a place to seek shelter from the storm…only for the storm to kill them off right outside of it…

…No.

Bill was probably rolling around and laughing in his figurative grave right now. 'Francis died from getting a little wet?' The old bastard would never let him live it down.

Fuck _that_.

He wouldn't give Bill the satisfaction. With a roar, Francis shot to his feet, a reckless combination of determination and fresh adrenaline pumping through his veins.

He felt _alive_.

The feeling was fleeting, Francis could tell by the ever-present fog which curled around his sight.

Had to make this fast.

Swinging the shotgun over his shoulder, Francis bent down and lifted Zoey's prone form and threw her over his other shoulder. Once he was sure the unconscious brunette was secure, he hefted Louis up and rested the businessman in the crook of his arm. The muddied ground no longer felt like a hindrance as the biker crossed the distance with long, purposeful strides. Pausing at the side of the house, Francis carefully peered around the corner. Appearing satisfied with the lack of Infected, the tattooed survivor climbed the porch and kicked open the door. Francis strained his ears for any signs of Infected inside the structure. His right arm – the one that firmly held Louis – slackened a bit in its hold, inching closer toward the magnum at his thigh. He didn't _want_ to drop Louis, but if it meant reaching his gun and saving their asses…then the businessman could take a bump on the head.

Aside from the howling wind and crashing thunder, no noise emanated from the house. His entrance had been a rather loud one, enough to invite any of the former humans dwelling within to come running. Breathing a sigh of relief, Francis kicked the door shut and quickly strode into the living room. Spotting a recliner, the biker dropped Louis carefully onto its cushioned surface before laying Zoey onto an adjacent couch. Reaching behind his back, Francis popped off the small flashlight that had been attached to his SPAS.

With the room at least partially illuminated now, Francis crouched down and began checking on his companions. Both survivors were soaked to the bone and then some, causing the small spasms of shivers to be that much more apparent. Zoey's cheeks were dusted with pink, no doubt a result of the storm and her injury. Despite his previous overwhelming urge to project his hatred toward Noble during their little standoff, Francis had seen Zoey stumble, the pain briefly flashing through her eyes before she bent down for the discarded tag. Since then she had been favoring her side more than usual, the wound obviously bothering her, but still too stubborn to verbally admit it.

Placing the edge of his glove between his teeth, the biker yanked off the leather article of clothing and let it fall harmlessly to the floor. Francis rested the back of his large hand against Zoey's forehead, muttering a quiet curse upon discovering a flushed heat. Grimace still marring his face, the tattooed survivor turned toward Louis on the recliner, noting that the businessman was in a similar state. The scrape on his temple was still leaking blood at a slow, but steady, rate.

That needed to be put to a stop.

Rising to his feet, Francis winced as a sharp twinge of pain rocketed down his leg.

Oh yeah, that was _definitely_ going to hurt in the morning.

The biker pulled his magnum from its holster and began wandering through the house. Half of the rooms were plain and unfinished, mere cubes of drywall and concrete. One room in particular – what he could only guess was the family room – appeared as if the workers had just up and left on the drop of a hat, something that Francis couldn't really bring himself to doubt. Spotting some derelict rags laid across a sawhorse, the large survivor plucked them from their resting place. It's not like the place would have any towels in it or anything. Quickly moving to Louis' side, the biker began sorting through the pieces of cloth.

"Guess this'll have to do," Francis grunted while separating the cleanest two rags. "I just hope it's enough."

Being as gentle as he could, Francis dabbed at the wound on Louis' head. Once he was certain that the gash was as clean as it was going to get, the biker promptly tied the second cloth around the businessman's skull. Settling back, the tattooed survivor observed his handiwork. It was simple and haphazard…certainly a far cry from actual gauze, but it would work as a temporary bandage.

Francis glanced between his two unconscious companions, noticing with a growing feeling of unease that both were starting to shiver more violently.

"You guys must be cold, huh? Yeah, well wet clothes will do that."

Oh Christ, muttering to himself every once in a while was one thing, but this was starting to go too far.

The biker suppressed a shiver as the chill from his sodden clothes crept into his flesh. "I must be losing my damn mind…talking to you guys as if you can actually hear me and shit."

…_rrrrrrr_…

Francis paused, the sensation of the cold momentarily taking a back seat in his mind. What the fuck was _that_? The burly survivor cocked his head toward the front door, straining his ears for any additional sound. Other than the hellish symphony of the storm, nothing new could be heard…sans his now chattering teeth.

"I guess I _am_ loosing it," Francis chuckled darkly with a shake of his head. "Now, about those damn clothes…"

…_rrrRRRAAA_...

Francis' head shot up, a chill traveling through his nerves as alarms sounded in his mind. Panic flooded his systems, hard brown eyes snapping to the closed door of the abandoned house. It couldn't be…there was no way in _hell_ that this could be happening. Sure enough, even over the hurricane winds outside, the Tank's roar could be heard as clear as a bell.

Shit! _Shit! __**Shit!**_

Images of the gnarled buggy came flooding through the biker's mind. Fuck! How could he have forgotten about that?

Francis spared a glance at his unconscious friends before reattaching the miniature flashlight back onto his SPAS, mumbling as his hands worked in mechanical fashion.

"…It's close…probably already knows we're in here. Need to lure the damn thing away…no way in hell will they survive once it gets in."

Confident that both of his weapons were loaded, the biker stood on unsteady legs. Desperately willing away his foggy vision, Francis fixed the closed door with a steely gaze.

"Goodbyes are a bitch…so I'm gonna settle on a 'see you sooner or later.' Not very classy, but I don't really give a shit."

Zoey and Louis remained unmoving.

Francis allowed a feral grin to reach his face. "No response, huh? I gotta admit…I'm really starting to miss hearing you guys talk."

Deep breath. Release. Ready.

"…Merry _fucking_ Christmas."

The biker swung the door open, charging blindly once more into the torrential rain while unconsciously slamming the door shut behind him. The droplets were flying through the air at a near-horizontal angle, backed by the gale, and felt like tiny knives slicing into his skin. The hurricane-force winds battered his frame from seemingly every angle, threatening to topple the large man over.

Yep…he _really_ didn't miss this.

"**Where are you, you** **bitch?**" Francis roared at the top of his lungs. "**Come out here and dance with the devil!**"

As it would appear, the massive Infected was all too happy to comply. Like a great white shark the Tank cut through the thigh-high water with disturbing ease.

"That's it, Jaws…c'mere…"

The blast from the magnum barely overpowered the storm for an instant. Unperturbed by the gunshot wound situated below its right pectoral – if it was even aware it was there at all – the leviathan continued its charge.

"Ate your Wheaties this morning, did ya? Lucky me!" Francis let loose a crazed cackle while holstering the handgun. "Guess I'll have to step it up."

The biker leapt from the porch a moment before two meaty fists splintered the wooden boards as if they were mere toothpicks. Francis stumbled as he landed in the murky waters before hastily righting himself. Wasting little time, he immediately spun around, popping off a couple of shells into the giant's massive backside. A fleshy, grey truncheon swing blindly outward in a wide arc, an aggravated grunt escaping the Infected's mouth. The tattooed survivor dropped low, submerging himself shoulder-deep into the floodwaters to avoid the strike.

The outstretched limb carried with the momentum, dipping back into the water before jerking to a halt. Using the arm as leverage the Tank rotated to face Francis, plowing its other arm through the choppy waters. Francis sprung forward, diving below the trunk-like limb and emptying another three rounds into the behemoth's exposed abdomen. The third blast barely escaped the muzzle before the biker's vision was torn away from him by the clouded waters. Francis broke the surface with a gasp, all too aware that the Tank was reeling its arm back for another strike. With a grunt of effort, the biker used the Tank's legs as support and pushed away from the beast, effectively putting a good five feet of distance between them.

The Tank's powerful arm pierced through the floodwaters once more, barely missing Francis by a few inches. The force of the blow pushed the water and Francis back a few more feet, leaving the biker hacking and coughing as he attempted to right himself.

"Okay…luring it away is no longer an option," Francis hissed as the Tank bore down upon him.

The bastard definitely wouldn't allow him to reload, so that left him with three more shells in the SPAS and seven rounds in the magnum. Killing the damn thing _was_ possible…but every single shot would have to nail him right in the head.

…Fat chance of that.

Francis sidestepped the jackhammer attempt as both fists crashed into the water. Barely able to stop himself from falling on his ass, the biker took aim and squeezed out the last of the shotgun's ammo. Lead tore through the Tank's hunched shoulder, neck, and face, ripping the flesh apart like flimsy paper. Without missing a beat, Francis swung the now empty SPAS over his shoulder while pulling out the magnum. The tattooed survivor clumsily retreated a few steps, the water causing his backpedaling to be anything but graceful.

Pausing, the biker noticed the Tank struggle with its footing. Whether it was from being stuck in the quicksand-esque mud or from its own stupidity, Francis didn't know and he really didn't care…

…But he sure as hell wasn't going to waste it.

Shutting one eye and gripping the large pistol with both hands, Francis lifted the firearm and took careful aim.

"_What you're holding is one of the most powerful handguns in the world, son. I know you may favor your shotgun and all, but in your hands that magnum is probably the most lethal firearm against these zombie bastards."_

"Let's hope my accuracy hasn't suffered, old man."

Francis squeezed the trigger, firing each round in rapid succession until the entire magazine was empty. Every shot fired punctured a hole into the Tank's neck or face, the final slug completely tearing the Infected's lower jaw away. The biker cursed weakly as the empty container slipped out from the grip and hastily reached for a new magazine on his belt. Breaking his gaze on the trapped Infected, Francis glanced down and finished reloading his magnum. Hearing the satisfying _click_, the tattooed survivor brought the handgun up, hoping to finish the Tank off before it freed itself…

…Only to find that the Tank was _very_ free and _very_ close.

Although he did his best to avoid the blow, Francis felt a few ribs crack under the punch's force before he was sent sailing through the air.

Francis' body flew through the doorway like a rag doll, his back colliding hard against the wooden floor. The biker groggily rose to his feet, sputtering as his hand clenched at his battered midsection. Through the now open doorway, the massive silhouette of the Tank charged through the floodwaters and torrential rain. With a sneer, Francis left the empty shotgun on the floor, half-limping, half-running back into the front room. His legs felt like jelly, and he could see the edges of his vision darken.

'Hold it together, damn it. Hold it together!'

Francis threw himself in front of his companions, sluggishly drawing the magnum at his hip. His arms felt like lead weights, the task of simply lifting the large pistol proving to be taxing. Every breath brought fire to his chest, the pain flaring bright enough to cause the large survivor to fall to a knee. His vision flickered briefly before regaining a blurred focus on his surroundings. The wall around the doorway ruptured as the Tank plowed through it, sending debris flying in every direction. Francis turned his head, shying his eyes away from the oncoming glass and splinters. Brown eyes lingered for a moment on the two bodies behind him.

Zoey was sprawled across the couch, drenched to the bone and shivering violently. Her face was flushed with oncoming fever, the redness accentuating the blue that tinged her lips. Louis was in a similar state: slumped on the chair, shivering, and breaths coming out in ragged gasps. A small stream of blood trickled from the side of skull where the rag had slipped away.

He had failed them…he had failed Bill…

Francis turned back to blearily gaze into the eyes of their destroyer, which stood unmoving in the hole that it had created, its milky red eyes almost glowing against the flashes of lightning that streaked the sky. The biker raised his magnum, aiming at the colossus before him despite his rapidly fading vision. The Tank merely roared in response, smashing both of its fists into the floor, cracking the boards underneath.

"Come on, finish it."

The Tank glowered at him for a moment longer, as if sizing up its prey.

"Finish it!"

Francis squeezed his finger, his arm whipping back from the recoil of the deadly firearm.

"FINISH IT!"

The shell lodged itself in the Tank's shoulder, much to the Infected's ire. Francis felt the pistol slip from his hand as unconsciousness claimed him. The last thing the survivor saw was the massive frame of the Tank charging toward him, its arm pulled back.

* * *

**To Be Continued…**

**Up Next: Luck of the Irish**

** "So with my crook in hand," Mickey gestured toward his shotgun, earning a smirk from the biker. "I shall defend my flock…and fight off the wolves."**

**A brief silence passed over the two men. **

** "I don't know if my choice of actions will seek the Lord's favor…I won't know until my time comes…but regardless," the clergyman paused and glanced around the room, taking in the members of his shelter. "I _will_ protect them."**

* * *

**A/N: "'Hurricane Zombie' will be released about a week from now…maybe a little sooner. It all depends on whether or not I need to go browsing for a new laptop." **

**What on Earth was I smoking when I decided that that was a good thing to say?**

**So this chapter I completely redid from scratch after the continuous moaning and groaning of my offline beta reader. **

**So here we are at the end of the 7th Chapter, I'm so close to the halfway mark I can taste it…and it doesn't taste like victory. All negative thoughts aside, this takes place during Hard Rain, same storm and everything. I loved the idea behind Hard Rain…but I just felt that it wasn't implemented as well as it could've been. The squalls robbing you of visual and audio is a neat idea, but it's just so easy to work around if you have half a brain. **

**Now, before someone decides to get all technical with me on the hurricane situation, here is my argument. Yes, I know a C2 hurricane is incredibly dangerous and the survivors would never even to able to move anywhere _near_ as fast at they were in those winds. Secondly, it was C2 before it hit landfall, degrading it into a tolerable gale.**

**Thirdly, and I can't stress this enough, each story/chapter of fiction is allowed _one_ unbelievable premise (anything more and it tends to break the flow of the "continuous dream"). In this case, it was the survivors out wandering around in a hurricane without being killed by some uprooted tree or toppling house.**

**Don't really have anything else to say about this one…**

…**So my final thoughts: Mike-fucking-Noble.**

**As always, reviews and feedback are appreciated.**

**- C.C.**


	9. Luck of the Irish: Part One

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Left 4 Dead franchise, Valve does.**

**Thanks once again to my reviewers and to all of you who added 'Red' to your Favorites/Alerts.**

**Natureboy3: Oh, they fare pretty fair…but not as fair as a hare with hair at the fair. My idiocy aside, thanks for the review.**

**Alexandra . Weedall: Yes, a cliffy…and you really should try the game out if you haven't yet, it's quite fun (Well, with the right people anyway). Arigato for the gore and the review.**

**Spacejam: Um…thanks for the mudkip? And you were to groaning, just admit it.**

**The Ninja Platypus: Thanks, had fun with writing the Tank fight. Action scenes can be such a pain to choreograph on paper. As for Francis' mental state…I would find it quite funny if he randomly named his shotgun 'Lucy' and started talking to it.**

* * *

Chapter 8: Luck of the Irish (Part 1)

* * *

_We are fake, we are afraid; you know it's far from over._

"_Ugly" – The Exies_

* * *

_E pluribus unum…out of many, one. You are a part of me now…_

* * *

**Fairfield, Pennsylvania**

**14 Days After First Infection**

"Mother of God…" Francis murmured while staring at what was possibly the most **beautiful** sight he had ever encountered. "We have hit the goddamn jackpot."

Louis nodded in agreement, a grin slowly spreading across his face. "Now **this** is what I'm talkin' about."

Francis turned and called over his shoulder, "Hey guys, you might wanna come check this out!"

"Damnit Francis, keep your voice down!" Bill hissed while darting into the building. "Do you have any idea how many…Infected…there…"

Zoey strolled up behind the veteran, an eyebrow cocked at the former soldier's trailing voice.

"Whoa…"

Bill merely nodded as the brunette voiced his thoughts.

Situated before the group of survivors, behind a finely crafted marble counter, stood an entire wall of display cases…

…Display cases filled to the brim with firearms and ammunition.

Francis turned toward his companions and waggled his eyebrows. "So…who's up for some shopping?"

Upon discovering a spare key to the cases hidden behind the counter, the next handful of minutes ticked by in relative silence, sans the rustling of metal and Louis' excited jabber about the different firearms' names.

"Oh man, that's an M14! With a scope no less!" The businessman gushed over the rifle Zoey had just plucked from the rack. "It's supposed to be one of the most accurate rifles available to the general public."

The young woman tested the gun's weight in her hands before bringing the scope to her eye. "Reminds me of the rifle my dad used when he took me hunting."

Grief flickered across her face. "When he was still alive, anyway."

A grunt emitted from across the room, where Francis had disposed of his tattered pump-shotgun. "It's in the past, Zo…nothing you can do to change it now."

"Francis…" Bill warned, the edge in his voice more than apparent to the biker.

Zoey stopped the veteran with a quick shake of her head. "No…he's right, Bill…although he **is** being an ass about it."

"You're welcome," the biker chirped before lifting up a pristine black shotgun. "Hell yes! This is the kinda shit SWAT uses!"

"A Franchi SPAS-12," Louis clarified with a grin. "Never would've pegged you as the type to appreciate law enforcement, Francis."

"Correction," Francis muttered while gazing down the iron sights of his newly acquired weapon. "The cops can kiss my ass for all I care…'cept for your old man, Zo. Wade was an alright guy…when he wasn't pointing a gun at me or cuffing me. I may not like them, but I **do** appreciate their taste in guns."

Zoey merely rolled her eyes at Francis' omission regarding her father, but let it slide.

"Going with the M16, Bill?"

Francis and Zoey paused at Louis' observation, taking a moment to observe the relatively uniformed veteran delicately pull the assault rifle from its place on the wall. Bill pressed the stock against his shoulder while wrapping his hands around the grip and barrel respectively. The senior citizen cocked the rifle before aiming at an imaginary target on the wall. The wrinkled finger at the trigger squeezed, and an audible click filled the room.

"Like riding a damn bike," Bill murmured to himself with a small smile.

Francis cleared his throat, garnering the veteran's attention. "You're not gonna start having any crazy-ass Nam flashbacks, are ya?"

Bill smirked cryptically. "If I do, you'll be the first to know, Francis."

The biker snorted at the answer, but smirked along with the senior citizen.

"What about you, Louis?" Zoey inquired while attaching a shoulder strap to her new rifle.

The businessman glanced at the remaining display of weaponry before settling on a more handheld piece near the bottom row.

"The black guy picks an Uzi, figures," Francis snickered.

"Don't get me wrong, Francis," Louis explained dryly. "But I'm going for light weight and mobility here. The Uzi packs enough of a punch, but I'm not sacrificing speed by carrying a cumbersome gun."

"Not a bad plan," Bill commented while giving his beard a thoughtful scratch.

"Was just messing with you anyway, chill."

"But if it'll make Francis think of me as more masculine," Louis continued sarcastically while looking through the sidearm display case. "Then I'll pick up a – is that a Desert Eagle?"

The other two men peeked over the bald survivor's shoulders as he pulled a large, metallic handgun from the glass casing. "It looks a little different from the other models that I've seen."

Louis unloaded the magazine. "This thing can hold eight .50 caliber rounds…"

"How do you know so much about guns anyway?"

The businessman glimpsed over his shoulder at Francis. "Used to always go to a shooting range everyday during my lunch break. It was originally just a way for me to blow off steam, but the guys at the range were friendly enough and eventually got me hooked on this stuff."

"Hey, idiots!" Zoey called, smirking when all three men turned to look at her. The brunette jerked her thumb toward the sign behind her, which read: 'Soundproof Shooting Range Available!'

"You guys wanna test drive these things?"

* * *

"Damn, Zoey…you are one helluva shot," Bill praised with a whistle as the veteran assessed the paper target in his hands.

The brunette smiled while sliding a fresh magazine into the scoped rifle. "Thanks, Bill."

"Damn…the magnum's got a lot more recoil than I thought it would," Louis muttered while tossing his target paper aside. "Looks like I'll have to leave it behind."

Francis picked up the discarded handgun – fully reloaded – in his right hand and aimed it down the range. "Can't see why…it's just a large pistol, that's all."

Bill, who had caught the exchange, took a brief moment to glance over at the biker, weathered blue eyes lighting up.

"Francis, do me a favor and try and hit the bullseye."

The large survivor cocked an eyebrow at the spry old man.

"Humor me on this, son," Bill snapped. "And use both hands to grip the gun."

"What the hell are you planning?" Francis demanded with a growl, but did as ordered and secured the magnum in both hands.

**Bang!**

Binoculars at his eyes, Bill discovered a sizeable hole mere centimeters away from the mark.

"Again. This time squeeze out the rest of the clip."

Seven shots later and Bill felt a grin reach his face while flipping the booth's switch. "Francis, you're keeping the magnum."

"Huh?"

The veteran yanked off the paper and presented it to the trio of survivors, revealing a cluster of eight large, overlapping holes around the bullseye. Louis' eyes practically popped out of his skull.

"Few guys can do what you just did."

"…Hit the bullseye?"

Bill shook his head, "Magnum's are infamous for their recoil, making accuracy a bitch unless you take the time between rounds to realign your shots. But not you, you're built like a brick shithouse, son."

Francis merely smirked. He wasn't going to argue the truth.

The veteran continued, "With your size and stature, coupled with the strength in your arms, you've pretty much eliminated the magnum's recoil."

"I see what you mean and all, Bill…but **what** exactly **is** your point?"

Bill fixed the tattooed survivor with an even stare. "You can shoot a handgun capable of punching holes the size of dinner plates into a zombie at the same speed as one of these measly 9mm Beretta's."

Francis' eyes gleamed with predatory interest as he glanced down at the large sidearm.

"What you're holding is one of the most powerful handguns in the world, son. I know you may favor your shotgun and all, but in your hands that magnum is probably the most lethal firearm against these zombie bastards."

"Punch holes the size of dinner plates, eh?" Francis mused while sliding in a fresh magazine. "It'll be like a third fist…alright, I'm game."

* * *

**Mobile, Alabama**

**21 Days After First Infection**

_What I said about Bill and Louis were true, as for me…hell, I'd probably find a Tank and try to rip its spine from out of its ass. _

_You really are an idiot, you know that?_

_ So I've been told._

_Everyone has a job. Bill makes sure we're on the right track in getting the hell out of here, while Louis makes sure we don't kill each other. You give us the heads up on shit before it gets to us…as for me, I make sure the three of you get hurt as little as possible. _

_What if you die before then?_

_ I'm indestructible, remember? _

"Gregory, you and the twins check on the other two! You three, help me with this one!"

_Shut it, Bill! I can understand Zoey, she's still a kid, but Louis here is a goddamn adult, so he better start acting like one!_

_ I'm still trying to get used to this kind of shit, Francis. It's just…it's just that it's hard to believe that **humans** could have done something like that…_

_For the love of – they're not human!_

_They were human at one point!_ _They were human, just like you and me, before shit hit the fan! They had friends, family, jobs, and __**dreams**__! You wouldn't understand that though, would you? Nope, not Francis! Not Mr. Inde – fucking – structable! Surely not the man who didn't have any friends or family, hell no!_

"Dear Mother of God…he's still breathing!"

_In all honesty, running off to an island to wait out the storm…it was the last thing I wanted to do. I thought like Zoey at one point…I wanted to stay behind and save as many as I could. It's impossible though, simply impossible; just the sheer way that this thing is spreading…what it's capable of __**producing**__…there's no way to save everyone._

_ Contrary to what Zoey may think, we're all alone now. The Infected are trying to kill us, the military's trying to kill us, and even if we **do** encounter any other survivors, we'll just end up infecting them and **then** they'll try to kill us._

_ What happened to the 'we look after our own' talk?_

_ …I'm glad…glad that we're actually able to see eye-to-eye on something._

_ I just hope that it's not the last time we do._

"The water's starting to recede. Lads, go get the truck…it's time we got back."

_So…what now?_

_ We wait. If they make it, they make it; if not…well, we can't save everyone._

_ What are we going to do now?_

_ What **can** we do?_

_ We'll do what we do best: Survive._

"Cassie, fetch Alex quickly! We need to get these three's fevers down immediately!"

_They're not immune…they're __**Carriers**__._

_ At least with them, it's easy to tell…but you…you people just waltz around, spreading Green without rhyme or reason!_

_ God damn it! We'll die out here if you don't let us in!_

_ …Good riddance._

_My hypothesis…one so absurd…so fictional that I originally felt that it couldn't possibly be true. This whole outbreak…it's not some kind of disease. It's not even the extinction of the human race. Simply put…it's…_

_ …**Evolution.**_

"They were actually out _in_ the storm?"

_End of the line…__**we're dead!**_

_ We're **Carriers**, Zoey! To them, we're the same as the Infected!_

_ This is the 'jackass.' Why are you helping us?_

_ …I just don't want to see any more people die unnecessarily._

_ I'm going back for him…keep going!_

_ I'm not leaving you guys! I won't let anyone else that I care about die on my watch!_

_ Why the **fuck** did you come back for me? **Both** of you could've died!_

_ No one else gets left behind._

"You should've seen it, Cass!"

"This one here was just **throwing** himself at a Hulk like a lunatic…it was awesome!"

_And leave you all alone with __**this**__? __**Hell no!**_

_That's an order, Zoey!_

_ You're not Bill!_

_ How can **either** of us trust you when you don't even trust **us** anymore?_

_ **Believe** in me._

_ So this is what it felt like…eh, Bill?_

_ No one else gets left behind…remember?_

"Boys, go help Gregory secure the perimeter…we don't want any of those things slipping in."

_I just don't want to end up being the one who says 'I told you so.'_

_ It's just a kid! You two would leave her to die…just like that?_

_ We need to find her some first aid now or she'll **die**!_

_ How the fuck is this thing still alive?_

_ What the **fuck** are you doing, Louis? You're gonna die!_

_ Trust me!_

_ Don't know what the fuck it is…but it needs to die._

_ So much for trusting us, eh?_

_ Some claim this is an Infected capable of manipulation…able to devise, to deceive, to **learn**._

_ I think we found the 'Zombie Bigfoot'…_

"Lord, guide these souls in their gravest hour…"

_We're in this together and we'll make it through this…__**together**__, if not for ourselves…then for Bill._

_ We can always just kill the girl. We don't want to…but we're not afraid to, either._

_ I already told you that I don't give a shit about the buggy…that thing's nothing more than a hunk of scrap metal compared to her._

_ If it's so important…how about another trade?_

_ Words cannot describe how much I want to shoot you right now._

_ Like hell Bill's memory is going to die on that note._

_ Only the fittest can survive now…even if that means treating everyone else like shit._

_ You gotta pick your battles, Louis…and that's a battle we can't win no matter how hard we try._

"Other than the fevers and overexposure to the storm, this one has a lightly torn vastus lateralis and five heavily bruised ribs. The younger one has an old wound across his thigh, a small lesion on his temple, and a mild concussion. As for the girl: a near-fatal gash along her side, just below the lung."

_You guys __**so**__ owe me for this._

_ Hope you're watching my back up there, old man._

_ What are you **doing**?_

_ Only the fittest can survive now._

_ All the fuckin' vampires in the world couldn't kill us…but now some wind and rain's gonna do the trick._

_ I guess I **am** loosing it._

_ Goodbyes are a bitch…so I'm gonna settle on a 'see you sooner or later.' Not very classy, but I don't really give a shit._

_ **Come out here and dance with the devil!**_

_He had failed them…he had failed Bill…_

_ Finish it!_

"It's a miracle they're even still alive."

Francis shot up, the sweet bliss of unconsciousness torn away from him with the suddenness of a bolt of lightning. Dilated brown eyes swept wildly from side to side, unsuccessfully trying to drink in every detail in the same instant. His vision was a mirage of blurs and after-images while his hearing was reduced to a dull static. As if a sudden wave of hypersensitivity washed over him, Francis became immediately aware of the pair of feminine hands pushing against his chest. The biker gave his head a quick shake in an attempt to dispel some of the haze.

"…need to lie back down! Your ribs are very fragile right now!"

Dazedly, Francis followed the source of the noise to the owner of the petite hands at his chest. A young blonde woman was gazing worriedly at him, and, quickly sensing the futility of her actions, shouted something over to the biker's far right. The nerves running along Francis' arm lit up as adrenaline began pumping through his veins.

Unfamiliar place.

Unfamiliar people.

Not good.

His arms flew up, grabbing the girl's shoulders in what – judging from the wince – Francis could only assume was a painful grip.

"Where are they?"

The young woman whimpered when the tattooed survivor violently shook her.

"I said **where are they?**"

Francis' primal roar was cut short when he was abruptly pulled away from the girl and shoved back onto the cot. Two separate weights settled on both of his arms, automatically provoking the biker to struggle.

"Easy there, big guy!"

"Holy crap, he's a strong one!"

Glancing from side to side, Francis surmised that he must've still been hallucinating, or suffering from double vision at the very least. Sitting on his left arm was a lanky blonde teenager, and on his other arm sat the _same_ kid.

"Dude, stop freaking out!"

With another roar the large man practically _threw_ the two boys off of him before bolting upright once again. His breaths coming out in heaves, Francis anxiously scanned the room.

"**Where the fuck are they?**"

The young woman collapsed backwards as Francis lurched from the cot. Landing unceremoniously onto the floor, the biker became vaguely aware of the pain that flared up in his left thigh. Like a rabid animal he staggered forward, desperately searching, hoping…_praying_. A flicker of red and white somewhere behind the girl caught his eye. Mind racing, Francis pushed the young woman aside while straining his eyes to focus properly.

Across the room lay Zoey and Louis on separate cots. The slow, but steady, rising and falling of their chests brought a tidal wave of relief washing over the tattooed survivor. As quickly as it came, the adrenaline vanished, leaving Francis to fall back into unconsciousness' embrace.

* * *

A gentle humming was the first thing he could even begin to sense. He felt like a computer starting up, his senses coming online one at a time. As the clarity of the melodic tune grew sharper, Francis became aware of the light assaulting his vision from beyond his closed eyelids. He slowly cracked them open, allowing his eyes time to adjust and soak in the detail of the ceiling. It was a dank, eggshell colored plaster with the paint already beginning to chip away in a few places. There were a few fluorescent fixtures, but none of them were the source of the illumination which he was basking in. Keeping still as to remain inconspicuous, Francis glanced over to his right, finding a series of tall stain glass windows stretching all the way to the ceiling. The artwork looked pretty Christian-esque, so he could only assume he was in a church.

The humming once again demanded his attention, forcing Francis to pull his gaze in the opposite direction. The young woman from earlier was sitting beside his cot, a young dark-haired girl sitting in her lap. The older of the two had shoulder-length blonde – almost sun-kissed – hair with a thin braid hanging loosely by her left cheek. The child – who looked no more than nine or ten – was scribbling on what appeared to be a sketchpad. Meanwhile, the young woman was braiding the little girl's hair, her eyes closed. Her lips were pressed into a small, heartbroken smile.

"That's a sad tune," Francis murmured, his eyes half-open.

The woman jumped with a startled gasp. Instinctively she pulled the child from her lap and positioned herself in a protective manner, eyes blazing with determination.

"Relax…I'm not going to do anything."

Aquamarine eyes remained doubtful. "Father!"

"Ah! So you're up, are ya?" Francis turned his head toward the Irish accent, coming face to face with an elderly man sitting to his right. "How're ya feeling, lad?"

"Like shit…but I've had worse," Francis answered with a small shrug, taking a moment to assess the old man's features.

He was clearly old, but he was also a far cry from decrepit. In that regard he reminded the biker of Bill. A stockless Remington 870 was slung over his shoulder on a strap, a worn straw hat resting on his right knee. Neatly combed – but still slightly disheveled – faded red hair sat on his head, shades of grey near the scalp giving away his age. His face was a mess of stress lines and wrinkles, but his emerald eyes burned with a gentle warmth. His attire consisted of formal clothing, his "Sunday best" as some would call it, but the once-orderly slacks and jacket were frayed and adorned with grime and blood.

The elderly man chuckled, "That's a hard fact to believe, boyo."

Francis gingerly began to sit up, but paused when the young blonde woman rushed to his side. "Please! Your injuries…!"

The biker waved her off. "Like I said, I've had worse."

The woman frowned, but relented and sat back down in her chair. Leaning over, she whispered something in the child's ear before the young one scampered off.

"Zoey and Louis?"

"Your friends?" the elderly man inquired. Upon receiving a nod, he jerked his toward the other side of the room. "See for yourself."

The tattooed survivor craned his neck and found, much to his relief, his companions sitting on their own cots, conversing with a few of the building's residents. Seeing as the two looked rather comfortable with their setting, Francis felt a vast majority of the tension leave his muscles. Tenderly prodding the gauze wrapped around his shirtless midsection, he glanced between the two people beside his cot. "Who are you people? How did we end up here?"

"Well," the old man replied. "My name is Mickey O'Callaghan. The lovely young lass sitting across from me is Alex, our resident medic. She's the one who kept the Lord from claiming you a bit too early before your time."

Francis turned back to Alex and offered her a nod. "Thanks."

The young woman blushed and bowed her head, muttering a quick 'your welcome.'

Mickey laughed at the display. "She's also a bit shy and can't really handle compliments from strangers."

"Father!" Alex whined with a childish stomp of her foot. "Stop embarrassing me!"

"Father?" Francis murmured in slight confusion.

"Ah," Mickey chuckled. "I'm the priest of this chapel, you see. No relation by blood, but we are all God's children."

Francis inwardly groaned at the religious tidbit of information, but quickly shrugged it off and turned back to Alex.

"Were they seriously wounded?"

Timidity momentarily forgotten, Alex shook her head. "The girl…Zoey, was it?"

The biker nodded.

"The stitching on her side had come loose at one point, so I fixed that up as good as new. Other than that, she accrued a fever and several symptoms of hypothermia from being exposed to the storm for such a long time. Luckily we were able to beat the fever; that was the hard part. As soon as that stabilized, the hypothermia was easy to manage."

"And Louis?"

Alex nodded. "The stitching on his leg is still holding up. As for the head, he suffered a minor concussion from where he hit it. The bleeding has stopped, and once he gets some more rest, he'll be back to normal. He was in the same boat when it came to the fever. _You_ still drew the short stick though."

"Usually do," Francis muttered.

"Basically, you're dealing with a lightly torn thigh muscle in your left leg and a handful of heavily bruised ribs. If you start acting too recklessly without any rest, the fragility of your ribs may come to a head and you'll end up cracking – if not fully breaking – them."

"…So?"

Alex released an exasperated hiss. "If you break any ribs, there's a _very_ good chance one of your lungs will get punctured…resulting in death."

"Noted," Francis' shoulders heaved with a sigh of relief. "Really, thank you for saving them."

The shyness quickly returned as Alex's face flushed brightly while looking away. "It's really no big deal."

Mickey grinned, but his face promptly sobered. "You really shouldn't have been so reckless, lad."

Before the tattooed survivor could answer, the doors flew open.

"Is the Terminator awake?"

"Oh sweet, he is!"

Two identical blonde teenagers ran up to Francis' cot, matching grins spread across their faces. They were both on the tall side – still shorter than him, though – and a bit lanky, most likely an appearance due to their height. A shaggy mop of sandy blonde hair sat on either of their heads. They both had mismatched eyes: the left green, the right blue. Hell the only difference that Francis could see between the two was that the right boy's face was dusted with freckles.

"You are _insanely_ strong!"

"Practically threw us across the room back there!"

"And what was up with you fighting a Hulk all by yourself in the middle of a hurricane? Pretty stupid…"

"…But _really_ badass."

Francis cut the two boys off with a confused stare. "Hulk?"

Mickey interjected before either of the boys could answer. "The behemoth Infected."

Realization dawned on the biker. "Oh! Yeah, those…we just call them 'Tanks.'"

"'Tanks,' huh? To each his own. Might as well introduce you, the twins _did_ save you after all. The one of the left is Erik, and the other is Cyle."

The twins grinned with a collective wave. "_Yo_."

"Francis," the biker muttered with a hesitant nod. Before the twins could continue their interrogation, they were suddenly snatched up into the arms of a large, middle-aged woman. Francis wouldn't have pegged her as fat per se…a little _thick_ – not that he would dare openly say it – but she carried it well. By now the newcomer had both of her arms around the boys' necks, putting them both in awkward, yet painful, headlocks.

"Whatever it is…we didn't do it!" Erik gasped while futilely slapping at the large forearm around his head.

"Yeah, Cass! We're behaving, honestly!" Cyle managed to choke out.

If anything the burly woman tightened her hold on the boys, "Behaving? The poor man's been awake barely even a minute and you two are suffocating him with questions. He doesn't even have his bearings yet!"

"Not our fault…" Cyle grumbled, but squirmed harder when Cass once again tightened her hold. "Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!"

"Apologize to him…**now**."

"We're sorry, Mr. Terminator!" Erik wheezed, his face beginning to turn an odd shade of blue.

"_Really_ sorry!" Cyle quipped after receiving a stern glare from his captor.

"Uh…no problem?" Francis muttered slowly, feeling a small twinge of pity for the twins.

Mickey merely laughed from his place beside the cot, "And this fiery lass here is Cassie. We like to think of her as the mother hen of this place."

Cassie slackened her grip on the boys, but didn't quite release them, and offered the biker a polite smile and a small bow of her head, "It's good to see that the three of you managed to pull through."

"Indeed," Mickey hummed in agreement. "Now can you please let those poor boys go, Cass?"

The woman frowned, "Sorry, Father, but they've been a little _mischievous_ while you were here watching over this one."

Erik attempted to swivel his head around to glare up at Cassie, but to no avail. "We helped Greg secure the place. What more do you want?"

Francis watched as the woman fixed her severe gaze on the freckle-less brother. "Both of you were pestering his friends the moment they woke up!"

Erik, tempting fate, snapped back. "Hey! I was just asking them if they were alright. Cyle was the one hitting on that Zoey chick!"

"Don't try and pin that on me!" Cyle growled defensively. "That was all _you_!"

"That's enough, lads," Mickey interjected before Erik could fire off a retort. "Now's not the time."

"Sorry, Mickey." The brothers murmured in unison.

Cassie released the boys, who massaged their necks in annoyance, but still possessed the presence of mind to hold their tongues.

"Francis!"

The biker twisted at the waist toward the source of the voice just as a red blur collided with his midsection. Pain throbbed across his abdomen, but Francis was able to discern lithe arms wrapped around his neck and a head of brown hair pressed against his shoulder. A tattooed arm hooked itself around Zoey's shoulders, but the other was hastily tapping on her arm.

"Injured ribs, Zo!" Francis hissed through clenched teeth, and grunted when another weight settled on his other side. "What the hell, Louis?"

The businessman's eyes were apologetic, but a grin was plastered across his face. "Sorry, but I couldn't resist."

The biker grumbled while trying to shake off the spontaneous group hug which he had been engulfed in. It wasn't that he didn't miss them or anything, but this level of clinginess was starting to cross some personal space boundaries for Francis. Peaking to his left, the gruff survivor could see Alex waving her hands frantically, shouting about the condition of his ribs in an effort to relieve him. Oceanic eyes snapped open and Zoey threw herself off of Francis.

"Oh God! I'm so sorry, Francis!" Zoey quickly apologized, watching on in worry as the biker tenderly held his midsection.

"Don't worry about it," Francis tried to assure, but couldn't keep the pained expression from his face.

The brunette turned to face Alex. "It's just his ribs, right?"

"And his left thigh," the medic informed.

Zoey nodded…and then promptly punched Francis in the shoulder as hard as she could.

"_**Ow**_," Francis growled while rolling the sore joint. "What the **hell** was that for?"

"What did I tell you about pulling stupid stunts?" Zoey demanded with a fixed glare. "Fighting a _Tank_? By _yourself_? What the hell, Francis?"

The biker scoffed, "Oh, that's rich coming from little Ms. 'Oh-it's-just-a-child-Francis-it'll-be-fine.'"

The fierceness of the young woman's stare intensified, if possible. "How was I supposed to know that it would be a trap?"

Unbeknownst to the bickering pair, Mickey's gaze darkened at Zoey's words.

"And I was just going to let the Tank run roughshod all over you guys? Like hell!"

"Guys, guys!" Louis interposed while stepping between his two companions. "Easy now…we're all still alive, aren't we?"

The two huffed, but ceased their argument nevertheless. Louis bit back the urge to chuckle as Zoey continued to shoot sidelong glares at Francis, who was more than happy to do the same. When they chose to squabble they could go _on_ and _on_ – seemingly forever, in fact – until Bill would step in and decisively end the fight. Louis may not have been as authoritative as the veteran, but he didn't need the two of them at each other's throats when they had _barely_ just recovered from their near-brush with death.

"And it's because of these guys that we are," Louis continued while gesturing toward their little 'audience.' "They saved us and patched us up as good as…"

The businessman trailed off, the weight of his words suddenly hitting him in full force. From what Alex had told him upon his awakening, he had a head wound, and that she had redone Zoey's stitching. Judging from the gauze wrapped securely around his cranium, the injury had broken the skin.

They had been openly bleeding…

"Louis?" Zoey gently prodded with a confused stare.

"Oh god…" Louis moaned while bring a trembling hand to his bandaged head.

Francis frowned up at the businessman, "What is it?"

"Our blood…_our blood_!"

The realization hit Zoey first, almost like a physical blow. Color drained from the brunette's face as she stared fearfully around the room. Francis was last, but knew damn well the situation that they were in now. Memories of Millhaven flashed through the biker's mind like a demented movie reel. The massive survivor heaved himself from his cot into a standing position.

"Your ribs…" Alex began while stepping forward.

Francis sharply cut her off. "We need to leave."

The statement was directed at Mickey, who rose from his chair. "In the state that you all are in? That's suicide, lad."

"_Now._"

The clergyman brought his hand up in a neutral gesture. "Slow down, now. What's got you three so worried?"

Alex's eyes lit up in understanding. "They're Carriers…"

The trio of survivors stiffened and herded closer together, with Francis unconsciously pulling the other two behind him. "We'll leave peacefully if we can just get our stuff back and go."

Mickey answered with a deep chuckle. "I think there's been a bit of a misunderstanding."

"You didn't tell them about us, did ya, Mick?" Cyle muttered.

"I was going to, then you and your brother barged on in here and interrupted our conversation," Mickey chided gently before turning back toward the three survivors. "I realize what you're worried about, but don't be."

Grinning warmly, the clergyman placed the straw hat on his head and spread his arms in a hospitable motion. "Welcome to _Sanctuary_…"

The survivors merely blinked in confusion.

"…Built _by_ Carriers, _for_ Carriers."

* * *

**To Be Continued…**

**Up Next: Luck of the Irish (Part 2)**

**A/N: Happy belated holidays to all (As little meaning as that may have now)! And welcome to 2012, the supposed final year of mankind (still got my money on the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man destroying the world). I was on hiatus due to midterms, finals, holidays, drunken birthday…the usual, but for the time being I'm back. I would just like to point out that Saints Row: The Third is absurdly awesome.**

**As for the chapter…didn't intent for it to be split into two parts, but then again I didn't plan for this project to be as long as it is becoming. I was hoping to be further along with this by its one year anniversary, but I ran into some problems that just couldn't be ignored…moving on. Introduced a few of my own personal characters into the fold. Do you think they need more fleshing out? Oh! And I wanted to include at some point in the project a place where Carriers were welcome and accepted, given how much flak they take in the plot.**

**As my boss so aptly put it: "Dude! It's like the Xavier Institute from _X-Men_!"**

**As always, reviews and feedback are appreciated.**

**- C.C.**


	10. Luck of the Irish: Part Two

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Left 4 Dead franchise, Valve does.**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: First of all, hello and welcome back dear readers. Secondly, due to FanFiction's rule prohibiting the use of Author's Notes as a form of bumping/updating a story, I find myself using fragments of Chapter Nine as a way to work past said rule. This document has been sitting on my hard drive for…let's just call it 'a while,' shall we? Thirdly, this is being done for readers of **_**The Red Tide**_** as an update from this is more likely to be seen than anything I do on my Bio page.**

**After a rather lengthy hiatus away, stemmed mostly from attending to some personal issues, I now find myself in a much, much better place than where I was a year ago. It was during this time away that I have decided to discontinue **_**The Red Tide**_**. Now to any fans of this story, don't fret. I may have stopped this project, but only so that I can reboot it.**

_**The Red Tide**_** will be revamped under its new title **_**On Sanguine Shores**_**. I plan the rewrite the whole shebang from the very beginning, using notes and published chapters from **_**The Red Tide**_** as references. Furthermore, I plan to write up to 'Luck of the Irish' in the new version before I begin posting chapters as to give me some breathing room. More information about **_**On Sanguine Shores**_** can be found on my Bio page (including a WIP of its cover art).**

**From the bottom of my heart, I thank you guys for your patience. I know it's not much, but please enjoy the last remnants of **_**The Red Tide**_**.**

* * *

**Chapter 9: Luck of the Irish (Part 2)**

_Welcome to Sanctuary, built by Carriers, __**for**__ Carriers._

* * *

_E pluribus unum…out of many, one. You are a part of me now, my puppet to use as I please._

* * *

**Gulf of Mexico**

**21 Days After First Infection**

Oswald Daekem glanced up from his notes upon hearing the familiar _whir_ of his office door sliding open. A man in his mid-thirties stood in the doorway, garbed in a white lab coat identical to his own. A mop of onyx-colored hair sat on his face, unkempt and looking alarmingly like a bird's nest. Two bloodshot, grey eyes stared at the doctor from behind a pair of thin glasses. The ID badge – rendered pointless by recent events – attached to his coat read 'GREENE.'

"Ah, Spencer," Daekem greeted while swiveling around to face his guest. "I see you still lack the courtesy to knock."

The younger man frowned, resisting the growing urge to roll his eyes. "And I see you still have memory trouble."

The doctor's wrinkles creased as he lifted an eyebrow. Spencer's face flushed, "Sorry, sir…it's just that I have the results that you were wanting."

Daekem accepted the folder that was handed to him without taking his eyes off of the younger man. "You always did have a quick mind, Spencer. It truly is a shame that it was always slower than your mouth."

"If you're still sore about me calling you 'Professor Ozzy' back in college, I'm really sorry about that."

The elder man chuckled, "That was five years ago, my boy, and you were still a student then."

The room fell silent as Daekem read through the folder's contents, a smile tugging at his lips. "This is excellent news, Spencer. I knew I could count on you."

"Thank you, sir."

"How are the tests for Cain coming?" The doctor inquired nonchalantly.

Spencer shifted his weight onto one foot. "Going as well as can be, given the circumstances. I've finally managed to isolate the error that kept popping up."

"And how many did we lose this time around?"

"Three, and two more are currently in critical condition."

Daekem at last glanced up from his notes. "What was the duration of the trial?"

The younger man shifted more nervously this time around. "The experiment lasted a total of 3.72 seconds, sir."

"Four seconds and he took out that many? Remarkable," Daekem breathed. "Even more remarkable is that you were able to zero in on the problem in such a short and frantic window of time. I knew I had chosen the right man as my protégé."

Spencer stood in pensive silence, refusing to acknowledge his mentor's praise.

Daekem quietly observed the younger man for a moment, "Something on your mind?"

"It's," Spencer began softly, as if searching for the proper words. "Why was Cross' team sent out to the mainland?"

The graying doctor swiveled his chair around to fully face his apprentice, "With luck, I'm hoping that they'll be able to acquire the final piece of the puzzle."

Spencer once again chose to remain silent, a troubled expression flitting across his face for the briefest of moments.

Daekem bridged his hands together, "Are you having doubts about our research, my boy?"

"No!" Spencer hastily answered with a wave of his hands. His shoulders sagged as the panic left his veins, "I know how important our work is; trust me, I do. It's just that…our _methods_ in conducting our research…"

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Daekem extracted a handkerchief while simultaneously removing his glasses. Methodically, he began to clean the lenses while addressing his young colleague in a slow tone, "You, above all others at this point, should be aware of the innumerable controversies and questionable tactics used in science to uncover the world's mysteries and solve its problems."

"But—"

"Polio, the Spanish Flu, the Black Death," Daekem continued while giving his pupil a sharp glance. "All of these pale in comparison to the Green Flu. It won't just be a mere one or two hundred million affected, it'll be all _seven billion_ of the world. Our work in invaluable! _We_ have realized what the other cells of CEDA fail to acknowledge. We are doing the only thing that can be done in order for humans to persevere. We will _mold_ it, _shape_ it to benefit us in some way.

* * *

**Mobile, Alabama**

**21 Days After First Infection**

If it wasn't for the fact that he had to keep up his 'tough guy' appearance, Francis would have cried tears of joy as he shoveled yet another spoonful of seasoned hamburger into his mouth.

"Unspoiled meat? Where on Earth did you **find** this?" Louis exclaimed between mouthfuls.

"Peanut butter's got **nothing** on this!"

Francis nodded in agreement with Zoey, "Yeah, never thought I'd get to eat red meat ever again!"

Cassie grinned at the three newcomers while stirring up another batch on a small, portable stove. "The church was always having community dinners and block parties before things went bad. To make things easier, my husband had a walk-in freezer installed out back and hooked it up to a generator in case the power went out."

Louis swallowed his food with a confused stare, "A place this small needed something that big?"

The older woman nodded with a knowing smile, "I know it may not look like much, but this place has – _had_ – a pretty big congregation in its hay-day." A pained expression flittered across Cassie's face, "And now we're all that's left."

"Where _is_ your husband?" Francis inquired, but upon receiving a stern glare from the brunette sitting beside him, he hastily added, "If you don't mind me asking, that is."

"He passed away," Cassie explained with a fondness in her eyes. "Seeing the sorry state this place is in now, he'd probably throw a fit."

Louis allowed his plastic spoon to rest inside the empty bowl in his lap, "Was he…?"

Sensing the question, the older woman answered with a quick shake of her head, "No, he died of cancer three years ago."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Louis murmured, ashamed with himself for even trying to bring the question up.

"We've all lost loved ones, my boy…and frankly, I'm glad he's not alive to see what the world is coming to. When he closed his eyes, the world was still normal…still _good_." Cassie emitted a sigh before recomposing herself, "Look at me, prattling on. I doubt the story of a housewife is very exciting for you."

"No, no! If anything _we're_ sorry if it seemed like we were prying!" Louis answered quickly.

Cassie smiled, "It's alright, dear."

Finished with his bowl, Francis allowed his gaze to sweep across the large, open room before settling on the blonde-haired medic, Alex, and the dark-haired girl who sat in her lap. "I know everyone has a story," the biker ground out while looking up at Cassie. "But that kid hasn't spoken the entire time we've been here. Do we scare her or something?"

"I've wondered about that too," Zoey added softly, her oceanic eyes flitting across the child. "She seems like a sweet girl, though."

"Her name is Bridget, and indeed she does have a story," Cassie informed the trio quietly. "A tragic one, in fact. You need not worry though; the three of you are not the cause of her silence. She doesn't speak to anyone."

"No one?" Louis questioned in bewilderment.

The older woman offered a sad shake of her head. "The cause…" Cassie trailed off and bit her lip in thought. "Perhaps it's best if you speak with Father Mickey first? He looks like he's wanted to ask you about something since you settled in. Isn't that right, Father?"

"Quite right!" A jovial Irish accent answered from behind the trio of survivors. Mickey offered the group a warm smile before plopping down onto one of the spare folding chairs huddled around the stove. Graciously accepting a filled bowl from Cassie, the clergyman removed his straw hat and rested it on his knee. Turning to face three newcomers, Mickey's expression quickly turned somber. "Earlier, after the lot of you regained consciousness, you mentioned something about being in a trap, correct?"

Zoey tilted her head to the side in thought, "I vaguely recall that, yeah."

"If you don't mind, could you elaborate on it, please? What exactly happened?"

After Zoey recounted what had happened in the parking garage – Louis and Francis chiming in for the parts where she was unconscious – Mickey leaned back in his chair with a troubled expression. "I see, so you came into contact with the Puppeteer…"

"The _what_?" Francis asked incredulously.

"It's what we've come to call that damned thing, given its abilities. Did you manage to get a glimpse of it?"

Francis and Louis exchanged looks before the businessman shook his head, "Briefly, and even then it was a little hazy, what with everything going on. The other Infected were crowding around it."

"I see," Mickey murmured with a stroke of his chin, a troubled expression momentarily filling his emerald eyes. The clergyman turned at the waist and called over his shoulder, "Bridget, my child, could you come over here for a second?"

The dark-haired child obediently complied, shuffling toward the group while hugging a sketchbook close to her chest. She hovered near Mickey, looking up at the elderly man with wide, questioning eyes.

The clergyman rested his hand on top of Bridget's head, "May I please borrow your drawing of the Boogeyman?" The child stiffened while the trio of survivors merely frowned in confusion at the name. Bridget hesitated, but obeyed with a meek nod of her head and quickly extracted a piece of folded paper from the book. Mickey accepted the parchment and planted a chaste kiss on the child's forehead, "Thank you, I promise to return it safely."

Taking that as her cue, Bridget nodded and scampered back to where Alex was sitting.

"Boogeyman?"

Mickey offered Zoey a bitter chuckle, "It's what Bridget sees the Puppeteer as." Unfolding the paper, the clergyman displayed its contents to the trio of newcomers.

Francis' jaw dropped, "Holy…"

"_She_ drew that?" Louis asked in utter amazement.

"Incredible," Zoey breathed.

Sitting there on the paper, in perfect quality and rendition, was the Puppeteer. It had a hunched, scarecrow-of-a-figure with a bloated cranium and a number of tendrils growing from its back.

"Quite good, isn't she?" Mickey chuckled. "Unfortunately, this is the only image of the blasted thing that we have. Every one of our groups that have encountered it could only report a vague description or growing sense of dread before we lost contact."

"Wait," Louis murmured while fixing the clergyman with a stare. "Then how did Bridget draw this?"

The priest's shoulders sagged with a heavy sigh. "The poor lass' parents fell victim to it when the infection hit her home. She was forced to watch from a hiding spot as it took them from her; not just killing them, but parading them around like twisted marionettes."

When none of the survivors commented, save for their shared looks of astonishment and disgust, Mickey added, "She wasn't always a mute…she was—is—a member of this church. She was always bubbly…always in such a joyous mood and wasn't afraid to give it like a gift." A fond expression caused emerald eyes to crinkle briefly before sobering. "That night has been permanently burned into her mind for the rest of her days. It stole away everything from her…even in this place of familiarity and safety, it still haunts her. I'm afraid that Bridget subconsciously fears that if she makes a sound, then the Puppeteer will somehow hear and come find her…just like on that night."

* * *

Mickey smiled grimly. "Although it's true that we're supposed to love thy neighbor…even if that neighbor raises their hand against us, I do not see these creatures for what they once were. These _things_ are demons."

"…A shepherd must protect his flock." The priest murmured.

"He can't save and guide his flock from the wolves by embracing the fangs, now can he?"

Francis snorted. "Guess not."

"So with my crook in hand," Mickey gestured toward his shotgun, earning a smirk from the biker. "I shall defend my flock…and fight off the wolves."

A brief silence passed over the two men.

"I don't know if my choice of actions will seek the Lord's favor…I won't know until my time comes…but regardless," the clergyman paused and glanced around the room, taking in the members of his shelter. "I _will_ protect them."

* * *

"Take it and go, lad," Mickey commanded firmly while gripping his shotgun tightly.

Francis watched as the clergyman's eyes skittered around the open area of the chapel, focusing for fleeting moments on the occasional bobbing flashlight. "We can stay…we can help!"

As the words left his mouth, Francis could hear Zoey's voice repeating them, his mind briefly taking him back to a time that felt like months ago. Oceanic eyes torn between a glare and a plea as they sought out Bill's stormy blue. Is this what Zoey had felt? The desperate urge to protect something that…that simply _couldn't_ be protected?

Where Bill had remained firm with a stern, authoritative frown, Mickey smiled gently up at Francis, placing his hand on the biker's leather vest. "You're a good man, Francis. Despite what choices you may have made before all…_this_ happened, you've risen above it all and shown who you really are."

Refusing to admit that he was touched by the praise, Francis animatedly began to wave his hand, "But…!"

The hand on his shoulder squeezed tightly, stopping the biker's indignant retort. "You have your flock to protect…and I have mine."

The biker could only numbly watch as Mickey placed a set of car keys in his outstretched hand, still hovering in midair. The clergyman gently forced Francis' fingers to curl around the gift before giving them a warm squeeze. "My flock is too big to move at a quick pace, and I refuse to let any fall behind if I can help it. Yours though, yours is small…quick…it is not meant to be merged with others, I can see that now. Even if…_when_…you lot make it out of this, no matter the number, be it with a hundred or even a thousand, the three of you will stay united.

"And that, boyo…is a strong flock."

Francis swallowed the lump in his throat.

Mickey jerked his head toward the church's back door. "Go, your place is elsewhere…while mine is here, fighting off the wolves."

The tattooed survivor couldn't help but match the grin that spread across Mickey's face. "We'll…we'll come back for you. We'll find you, _all_ of you."

Neither man fully believed the words. "I appreciate it, lad…now get going before you miss your chance."

* * *

Zoey turned around upon feeling an insistent tug on her jacket and glanced down to find Bridget standing before her. Crouching down, Zoey worriedly stared into the child's eyes, "What's wrong, sweetie?"

The child merely shook her head and held up a folded piece of drawing paper, offering it to Zoey.

"For me?"

A nod.

Zoey reached out and gently took the offered parchment. Tucking a finger into the crease, the former college student began to unfold her newly acquired gift, but was stopped when tiny hands placed themselves over hers. At Zoey's questioning gaze, Bridget shook her head again and pointed behind the lithe survivor at the doorway where Francis and Louis were waiting for her. With her other hand, Bridget began pushing at Zoey's bent knees.

The young woman couldn't help but scoop the child up into one final hug, "I get it, and I'll open it later. Thank you very much."

When her feet once more touched the ground, Bridget beamed up at Zoey, flashing the survivor a toothy smile.

* * *

Cyle reached down and helped his brother to his feet, allowing Erik to lean against him when the boy's bloodied leg gave out.

"So this is how we go out, huh?" Cyle muttered while staring down at the throngs of Infected that were quickly surging around the large fuel truck. The former humans directly below the twins' feet didn't even seem to notice the gasoline as it poured from the tank and splattered into their gaping mouths and eyes.

Erik gripped the flare gun tightly and let out a painful chuckle, "Least we'll go out with a bang."

"Anyone ever tell you that you suck with puns?"

"You do," Erik admitted after a moment. "Every damn day."

Cyle snorted, but his mirth quickly sobered as he glanced over his shoulder. "Might as well get this over with, I think we've bought Mick and the others all the time we can."

Erik voiced his agreement with a pained groan.

"Man…Cass' gonna be pissed," Cyle muttered.

"Hey," Erik growled weakly. "Cass' pissed off face is not the last thing I want to be thinking about before I die."

"Heh…right."

Erik weakly raised his arm, aiming at the pool of gasoline that formed beneath the feet of the horde of Infected. With a tired grin, he glanced at his brother from the corner of his eye.

"That Zoey chick had a nice ass, didn't she?"

Cyle released a choked laugh, his grip of Erik's shoulders tightening as he attempted to hug his twin from the odd angle. Tears were streaming down his cheeks when he offered a matching grin to his brother.

"Oh yeah."

A brilliant flash of orange and yellow lit up the night sky of Mobile.

* * *

"What's that in your hand?" Louis asked. His voice was hollow as he momentarily broke his gaze from the glowing sky in the distance to glance at Zoey. The young woman blinked and opened her palm, startled in discovering the folded piece of paper residing there. In the urgency of their escape, Bridget's gift to her had briefly slipped from Zoey's mind.

"Bridget gave it to me before we left. She said I had to wait before I opened it."

"_Said_?" Francis questioned while shutting the double-doors in the back of the van.

"You know what I mean."

"So what is it?" Louis inquired, his curiosity overpowering the unease that had been gnawing at him.

Zoey carefully began to unfold the slightly smudged piece of paper, moving so that Francis and Louis could get a better look over her shoulders. With one final tug the creases gave way and, like a blooming flower, the paper opened up. The trio froze simultaneously as they drank in the black and white image sketched onto the page. Small tremors slowly began to travel up Zoey's arms, causing the paper to shake ever so slightly. Bowing her head, the brunette felt her eyes water painfully.

Bill's face stared up at the survivors with flawless likeness. A cigarette was perched in his mouth and his beret was fixed purposely atop his balding scalp. While his mouth was set in his trademark frown, the slight crinkling around his eyes betrayed the gruffness and gave way to the fatherly expression that the trio had come to know.

"Thank you…Bridget."

* * *

**I cannot give you guys an ETA as to when _On Sanguine Shores_ will be up and going, but I truly do hope it will be soon.**

**-Con**


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